GIFT   OF 
Felix  Fltteel 


\J 


,- 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE 


BY 


VICTOR    HUGO 


BY  MELVILLE    B.  ANDERSON 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG   AND   COMPANY 
1891 


33*, 


£00 
831 


COPYRIGHT 
BY  A.  C.  McCLURG  AND  Co. 

A.D.    1886. 


••  ••• :  :  •• :    :  .*.*• 
•:.*:•••    ::...•*  ••• 


r.i 


TO 

ENGLAND 

E  BrtJicate  tfjts  iSook, 

THE  GLORIFICATION  OF  HER  POET. 

I   TELL   ENGLAND  THE   TRUTH; 

BUT  AS  A  LAND   ILLUSTRIOUS  AND  FREE,   I   ADMIRE   HER, 
AND  AS  AN   ASYLUM,    I   LOVE  HER. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

HAUTEVILLE  HOUSE,  1864. 


PREFACE. 


THE  true  title  of  this  work  should  be,  '  Con- 
cerning Shakespeare.'  The  Author's  original 
incentive  was  the  desire  to  "introduce,"  as  they 
say  in  England,  the  new  translation  of  Shakespeare 
to  the  public.  The  tie  that  binds  him  so  closely 
to  the  translator  need  not  deprive  him  of  the  privi- 
lege of  commending  the  translation.1  From  an- 
other side,  however,  and  still  more  closely,  his 
conscience  was  engaged  by  the  subject  itself.  In 
contemplating  Shakespeare,  all  the  questions  re- 
lating to  art  have  arisen  in  the  Author's  mind. 
To  deal  with  these  questions  is  to  set  forth  the 
mission  of  art ;  to  deal  with  these  questions  is  to 
set  forth  the  duty  of  human  thought  toward  man. 
Such  an  opportunity  for  speaking  some  true  words 
imposes  an  obligation  that  is  not  to  be  shirked, 
especially  in  a  time  like  ours.  This  the  Author 

1  Made  by  the  poet's  son,  Franfois- Victor  Hugo.  —  TR. 


viii  PREFACE. 

has  understood.  He  has  not  hesitated  to  take 
every  avenue  of  approach  to  these  complex  ques- 
tions of  art  and  of  civilization,  varying  the  horizon 
as  the  perspective  shifted,  and  accepting  every 
hint  supplied  by  the  urgency  of  the  task.  From 
such  an  enlarged  conception  of  the  subject  this 
book  has  sprung. 

Hauteville  House,  1864. 


TRANSLATOR'S     PREFACE. 


HPHE  work  herewith  presented  to  the  public 
A  belongs  to  the  literature  of  power  rather 
than  to  the  literature  of  knowledge.  Beguiling 
his  exile,  remote  from  great  libraries  and  from 
books  of  reference,  by  this  sweeping  review  of 
all  that  he  regarded  as  worthiest  and  noblest  in 
the  whole  range  of  humane  letters,  Victor  Hugo 
is  sometimes  pardonably  inaccurate  in  details. 
The  Translator  has  deemed  it  his  duty  to  re- 
produce faithfully  the  text,  and  has  taken  the 
liberty  to  correct  in  footnotes  (signed  TR.)  the 
errors  that  seemed  to  him  most  noticeable,  es- 
pecially those  touching  the  life  and  works  of 
Shakespeare.  That  he  has  corrected  all  which 
may  appear  important  to  others,  he  cannot  venture 
to  hope.  Fortunately,  this  great  work  does  not 
depend  for  its  value  upon  the  accuracy  of  its 
statements  of  fact,  nor  even,  chiefly,  upon  the 


X  TRANSLATORS  PREFACE. 

light  it  throws  upon  the  life  and  genius  of  Shake- 
speare. It  is  mainly  to  be  prized  as  a  masterly 
statement  of  the  Author's  ideas  concerning  the 
proper  relation  of  literature  to  human  life,  —  a 
statement  illuminated  by  wonderful  flashes  of 
poetry  and  eloquence,  and  illustrated  by  strong 
characterizations  of  many  famous  books  and  men. 
This  is  not  to  say,  however,  that  the  present  work 
will  not  serve,  better  than  most  others,  as  an 
introduction  to  Shakespeare,  to  yEschylus,  and 
perhaps  to  some  other  of  the  immortals  whom  it 
so  glowingly  celebrates. 

The  Translator  is  responsible  for  the  table  of 
contents,  and  for  the  index,  which  makes  no  pre- 
tence of  being  exhaustive. 

M.  B.  A. 

PURDUE  UNIVERSITY, 

Lafayette,  Ind.,  October,  1886. 


TOPICAL  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


part   JFirst. 

BOOK   I. 
SHAKESPEARE'S   LIFE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

Description  of  Marine  Terrace,  Isle  of  Jersey.  —  The  Exiles  .      3 

CHAPTER   II. 
Shakespeare  and  the  Ocean 7 


CHAPTER   III. 

Shakespeare's  Birthplace.  —  Orthography  of  Name.  —  Youth- 
ful Escapades  and  Marriage.  —  London  under  Elizabeth. 
—  The  Actors,  the  Theatres,  the  Audience.  •<—  Moliere's 
Theatre  and  Xouis  XIV.'s  Patronage.  —  Shakespeare's 
Person. — The  Taverns.  —  Chronology  of  Shakespeare's 
Plays.  —  Shakespeare  Manager  and  Money-lender.  —  New 
Place ;  Mrs.  Davenant.  —  The  Last  Years 9 


xii  TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   IV. 

PAGE 

Shakespeare's  Life  embittered.  —  Contemporary  Notice.  — 
The  Puritans  close  the  Play-houses.  —  Shakespeare's  Fame 
after  the  Restoration.  —  Dryden,  Shaftesbury,  Nahum 
Tate.  —  Shakespeare's  "  eclipse  " 29 

CHAPTER   V. 
Recasts  of  Plays.  —  Voltaire,  Garrick,  Malone 34 


BOOK   II. 
MEN   OF   GENIUS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Art,  Nature,  God.  —  Science  and  the  Supernatural.  —  The 
Poet's  Inspiration 36 

CHAPTER   II. 

The  Poet's  Ascent  to  the  Ideal.  —  Homer  characterized.  — 
Job  characterized.  —  .^Eschylus  characterized.  —  Isaiah 
characterized.  —  Ezekiel  characterized.  —  Lucretius  char- 
acterized. —  Juvenal  characterized.  —  Tacitus  character- 
ized :  Tiberius,  Caligula,  Claudius,  Nero.  —  Saint  John 
characterized.  —  Saint  Paul  characterized.  —  Dante  char- 
acterized.—  Rabelais  characterized.  —  Cervantes  charac- 
terized.—  Shakespeare  characterized 41 

CHAPTER   III. 
The  Dynasty  of  Genius.  —The  Wreck  of  ^Eschylus  ....     82 

CHAPTER    IV. 

The  Great,  Anonymous,  Collective  Works  of  Orient  and 
Occident. — The  German  Genius:  Beethoven.  —  "Good 
Taste  "  an  Incubus  upon  Genius 84 


TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS.  xiii 

BOOK   III. 

ART    AND    SCIENCE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

Poetry  made  imperishable  by  Printing.  —  The  Book  the  In- 
strument of  Civilization 95 


CHAPTER   II. 
Number  the  Basis  of  Poetry  and  of  Science .    99 

CHAPTER    III. 
Poetry,  being  absolute  in  Nature,  incapable  of  Progress      .     .  101 

CHAPTER   IV. 

The  Relative  and  Progressive  Nature  of  Science.  —  The  Im- 
provement of  the  Telescope.  —  Examples  of  Outgrown 
Scientific  Notions.  —  The  Errors  of  Pythagoras.  —  The 
Errors  of  Chrysippus.  —  Science  transitory,  Art  abiding. 
—  The  Eternal  Power  of  Art  illustrated  by  the  Effect  of 
Lucretius  upon  Hugo 105 

CHAPTER   V. 

The  Decline  of  Poetry  impossible 118 


xiv  TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

BOOK   IV. 
THE  ANCIENT  SHAKESPEARE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

PAGE 

Formidable  Character  of  ^Eschylus.  —  Vastness  and  Compre- 
hensiveness of  the  Drama.  — Tragic  Terror  of  ^Eschylus  .  122 

CHAPTER   II. 

Description  of  the  Greek  Theatre.  —  Description  of  the  Rep- 
resentation of  a  Greek  Play „  .  .  126 

CHAPTER    III. 
The  Renown  of  yEschylus  after  his  Death 132 

CHAPTER   IV. 

Ptolemy  Evergetes  and  the  Alexandrian  Library.  —  ^Eschylus 
stolen  from  Athens  and  transferred  to  Alexandria.  —  The 
Alexandrian  Library  burned  by  Omar 135 

CHAPTER  V. 

Attempts  to  justify  Omar.  —  Shakespeare  nearly  meets  the 
fate  of  ^schylus 140 

CHAPTER  VI. 

"^Eschylus  Lost."  — The  Number  of  Works  irrevocably 
destroyed 143 


TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS.  XV 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PAGE 

The  Affinity  of  ^schylus  with  Asia.  —  His  Geography.  —  His 
Priesthood  of  Nature.  —  His  Bold  Familiarity 146 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  Relation  of  Aristophanes  to  ^Eschylus.  —  The  Opposition 
of  Socrates  to  their  Religious  Enthusiasm.  —  The  Broad 
Farce  of  yEschylus.  —  The  Alarming  Mirth  of  Art.  —  The 
Two  Ears  of  Poetry 153 

CHAPTER   IX. 

Greece  the  great  Civilizer.  —  The  Drama  in  her  Colonies.  — 
JEschylus  the  Poet  of  the  Greek  Fatherland 160 

CHAPTER  X. 

Explanation  of  the  Loss  of  Books  in  Antiquity.  —  Gutenberg 
has  made  the  Book  immortal.  —  The  Ruins  of  Greek  and 
Roman  Books.  —  Sources  of  our  Knowledge  of  ^Eschylus. 
—  Similarity  of  ^Eschylus  to  Shakespeare 164 


BOOK     V. 

SOULS. 

/ 

CHAPTER   I. 

The  Genesis  of  the  Soul.  —  No  Tangible  Law.  —  The  Coinci- 
dences of  Genius.  —  The  Sacred  Horror  of  the  Great  Mys- 
tery.—The  Reality  of  the  Soul.  — The  Reality  of  Great 
Souls.  —  Their  Lofty  Functions.  —  The  Origin  and  the 
Mission  of  Genius 170 

CHAPTER  II. 

God  the  Exhaustless  Source  of  Genius 183 


xvi  TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

Part   g>econfc, 

BOOK   I. 

SHAKESPEARE'S    GENIUS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

PAGE 

The  Censurers  of  Shakespeare:  Forbes,  Greene,  Rymer, 
Dryden,  Ben  Jonson,  Warburton,  Foote,  Pope,  Voltaire, 
Dr.  Johnson,  Frederick  the  Great,  Coleridge,  Knight, 
Hunter,  Delandine 189 

CHAPTER   II. 

Shakespeare's  Reality. — The  Inexorable  Law  of  his  Genius. 

—  His  Sovereign  Horror  and  his  Charm.  — His  Philoso- 
phy. —  His    Imaginative   Arabesque.  —  His    Psychology. 

—  His  History.  —  His  Universality 195 

CHAPTER   III. 
Shakespeare's  Antithesis  a  Double  Refraction  of  Nature  .     .  203 

CHAPTER    IV. 

The  Orthodox  and  Academical  School  condemns  the  Luxu- 
riance of  Great  Poets.  —  No  Flirtation  with  the  Muses.  — 
Genius  bound  over  to  keep  the  Peace 205 

CHAPTER  V. 

Shakespeare  a  Trial  to  the  "  Sober  "  Critics ;  his  Fertility  and 
Virility.  —  Shakespeare  intoxicated  with  Nature  .  .  .  .211 


TOPICAL    TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  .          xvii 


BOOK    II. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  WORK.  — THE   CULMI- 
NATING  POINTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

The  Great  Poets  Creators  of  Human  Types.  —  Their  Kinship 
with  God.  —  The  Infamy  of  their  Censors 219 

CHAPTER   II. 

The  Nature  of  the  Living  Types  produced  by  the  Poets.  — 
How  they  differ  from  Historic  Persons 223 

CHAPTER   III. 

The   Man   of   ^Eschylus,   Prometheus;    the  Man  of   Shake- 
speare, Hamlet .     .  228 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Prometheus  on  Caucasus.  —  Hamlet 230 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  Feigned  Madness  of  Hamlet.  —  The  Character  of  Ham- 
let  -234 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Macbeth.  —  Othello. — Lear:     Time  of  the  Action;   Nature 
of  the  Subject ;  Character  of  Lear ;  Lear  and  Cordelia     .  240 
* 


xviii  TOPICAL   TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

BOOK    III. 

ZOILUS  AS   ETERNAL  AS   HOMER. 
CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

A  Chapter  of  Calumnies 250 

CHAPTER   II. 
The  Pedants  and  the  Police 254 

CHAPTER   III. 

Calumniation  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  —  Their  Burial  in  the 
Pantheon.  —  Their  Bones  thrown  into  a  Hole 257 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Pedantry  solicitous  about  Genius 261 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  Academical  View  of  Genius.  —  The  Comfortable  Middle- 
Class  View    .    .         263 

CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Sun  offensive  to  Weak  Eyes.  —  Genius  portentous. — 
Its  Humanity,  Sympathy,  Love,  Beauty 268 


TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS.  XIX 

BOOK    IV. 
CRITICISM. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

The  Double  Plots  of  Shakespeare's  Plays  a  Reflection  of  all 
the  Art  of  the  Renascence 274 


CHAPTER   II. 

Genius  to  be  accepted  as  Nature  is  accepted 277 

CHAPTER   III. 

Pegasus  a  Gift-Horse.  —  Prometheus  the  Progenitor  of  Mab 
and  Titania 279 

CHAPTER   IV. 

The  Romantic  School  has  imitated  neither  Shakespeare  nor 
yEschylus 282 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  Poet  original,  personal,  inimitable 285 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Definition  of  the  Official  French  School  of  Letters.  —  How 
the  Poet  panders  to  the  Mob. — The  Mob  described. — 
The  High  Mission  of  the  Poet  to  make  himself  a  Sacri- 
fice for  many 288 


XX  TOPSCAL    TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

BOOK    V. 
THE   MINDS  AND   THE   MASSES. 

CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

Destruction  and  Construction .  294 

/ 

CHAPTER   II. 
Literature  secretes  Civilization.  —  The  True  Socialism  .    .    .  295 

CHAPTER    III. 
The  Nadir  of  Democracy 298 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Animalism  not  the  Goal  of  Man 301 

CHAPTER   V. 
Literature  not  for  the  Lettered  only 303 

CHAPTER   VI. 
The  Irony  of  Macchiavelli  and  of  Voltaire 305 

CHAPTER   VII. 

The  Poet  a  Teacher.  — The  Mob  at  the  Theatre.  —The  Mob 
open  to  the  Ideal 307 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
How  to  restore  the  Ideal  to  the  Human  Mind 310 


TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS.  xxi 

BOOK  VI. 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  THE  SERVANT  OF 
THE  TRUE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Utility  the  Test  of  Art.  —  Utility  of  ^Eschylus  and  of  the  Bible. 
—  The  Poet  a  Helper 312 


CHAPTER   II. 

No  Loss  of  Beauty  from  Goodness.  —  "  Art  for  Art's  sake."  — 
Utility  of  Primitive  Poetry.  —  Greatness  of  Juvenal  .     .     .  320 


CHAPTER   III. 
The  Power  of  Poetry  in  Barbarous  Times      .......  324 

CHAPTER    IV. 
The  Obligation  of  the  Poet  to  Political  Vigilance 327 

CHAPTER   V. 

Bayle  and  Goethe.  —  The  Poet's  Passion  for  the  Right.  — 
Louis  XIV.  and  Racine.  —  The  Official  and  Academical 
Conception  of  the  Poet's  Function.  —  The  Poet  a  Nour- 
isher,  a  Comforter,  a  Liberator 330 


xxii  TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


CONCLUSION. 

BOOK    I. 

AFTER   DEATH;   SHAKESPEARE;    ENGLAND. 
CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

Six  Feet  of  Earth  the  End  of  All  for  the  Soldier,  the  Begin- 
ning of  All  for  the  Poet  ............  341 

CHAPTER   II. 

Shakespeare  the  Chief  Glory  of  England.  —  England,  Sparta, 
Carthage.  —  England's  Statues.  —  Her  Snobbishness  .  .  348 

CHAPTER   III. 

Shakespeare  and  Elizabeth.  —  Shakespeare  and  the  Bible.  — 
Coldness  of  England  to  Shakespeare.  —  English  Prudish- 
ness.  —  Philistine  Criticism.  —  Shakespeare  and  Mr.  Cal- 
craft,  the  Hangman  ..............  355 

CHAPTER   IV. 

England  in  Debt  to  Shakespeare.  —  France  to  Joan  of  Arc.  — 
Voltaire  the  Reviler  of  both  ...........  362 

CHAPTER  V. 

Shakespeare's  True  Monument.  —  A  Monument  indifferent  to 
Shakespeare,  important  to  England  .........  364 

CHAPTER   VI. 
The  Centennial  Anniversaries  of  Shakespeare  ......  368 


TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS.          xxiii 

BOOK    II. 

THE   NINETEENTH   CENTURY. 
CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

The  Nineteenth  Century  born  of  the  French  Revolution.  — 
Romanticism.  —  "  Literary  '93."  —  The  Eruption  of  Truth 
in  the  Soul.  —  The  Need  of  Prompt  Action  on  the  part  of 
Thinkers.  —  Discouragement.  —  The  Practical  Functions 
of  Thinkers 371 


BOOK   III. 

TRUE    HISTORY.  — EVERY    ONE    PUT    IN 
HIS    PLACE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

The  Age  of  the  Warrior  gone.  —  Finance  hostile  to  Heroes. 

—  Cost  of  the  Napoleonic  Wars 385 

CHAPTER   II. 

Imbecility  the  Warrior's  Excuse.  —  Things  Tyrants,  and  Ty- 
rants Things.  —  Horrible  Examples  of  Tyrannic  Cruelty. 

—  The  Wolf  the  Fruit  of  the  Forest.  —  The  Thinker  the 
Founder  of  Civilization 390 

CHAPTER   III. 

History  must  be  rewritten.  —  Examples  of  its  Triviality  and 
Sycophancy.  —  Cantemir  and  Karamsin.  —  Loyal  History: 
More  Examples.  —  History  ignorant  of  the  Essential  Facts 
of  Civilization :  Examples 396 


xxiv  TOPICAL    TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   IV. 

PAGE 

True  History  described  and  prophesied.  —  Truth  coming  to 
Light.  —  The  Dynasty  of  Genius  not  oppressive    ....  408 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  New  Aspect  of  Things.  —  The  Potentates  put  to  Flight 
by  the  Dreamers 415 


PART  I. 


PART    FIRST. 


BOOK    I. 

SHAKESPEARE.  — HIS   LIFE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

A  DOZEN  years  ago,  on  an  island  near  the  coast 
of  France,  a  house,  at  every  season  of  for- 
bidding aspect,  was  growing  especially  gloomy  by 
reason  of  the  approach  of  winter.  The  west  wind, 
which  had  full  sweep  there,  was  piling  thick  upon 
this  dwelling  those  enveloping  fogs  November  in- 
terposes between  sun  and  earth.  In  autumn,  night 
falls  early ;  the  narrow  windows  made  the  days  still 
briefer  within,  and  deepened  the  sombre  twilight  of 
the  house. 

This  house  was  flat-roofed,  rectilinear,  correct, 
square,  and  covered  with  a  fresh  coat  of  white- 
wash; it  was  Methodism  in  brick  and  stone. 
Nothing  is  so  glacial  as  this  English  whiteness; 
it  seems  to  offer  you  a  kind  of  polar  hospitality. 
One  thinks  with  longing  of  the  old  peasant  huts 
of  France,  wooden  and  black,  yet  cheerful  with 
clustering  vines. 


,    ,    ',  ,  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Adjoining  the  house  was  a  quarter-acre  of  slop- 
ing garden-ground,  walled  in,  broken  by  granite 
steps  and  breast-walls,  —  a  bare,  treeless  garden, 
with  more  stones  than  leaves.  This  little  uncul- 
tivated patch  abounded  in  tufts  of  marigolds, 
which  bloom  in  autumn,  and  which  the  poor 
people  of  the  country  eat  cooked  with  the  con- 
ger-eel. The  neighboring  sea-shore  was  concealed 
from  this  garden  by  a  rise  of  ground,  upon  which 
there  was  a  field  of  grass  with  some  nettles  and  a 
big  hemlock. 

From  the  house  was  seen  on  the  horizon  at  the 
right,  in  a  little  wood  upon  a  hill,  a  tower  said  to  be 
haunted ;  at  the  left  was  seen  the  dike.  The  dike 
was  a  row  of  great  piles  set  upright  in  the  sand 
against  a  wall ;  these  dry,  gaunt,  knotty  logs  resem- 
bled an  array  of  leg-bones  and  knee-caps  afflicted 
with  anchylosis.  Revery,  which  likes  to  accept 
fancies  as  material  for  enigmas,  might  inquire  to 
what  race  of  men  these  three-fathom  tibias  had 
belonged. 

The  south  front  of  the  house  faced  the  garden, 
the  north  front  a  deserted  road.  A  corridor  as  an 
entry  on  the  ground  floor,  a  kitchen,  a  greenhouse, 
and  a  court-yard,  then  a  little  drawing-room  look- 
ing out  upon  the  lonely  road,  and  a  pretty  large, 
dimly  lighted  study;  on  the  second  and  third  floors, 
neat,  cold,  freshly  painted  chambers,  barely  fur- 
nished, with  white  shrouds  for  window-hangings. 
Such  was  this  dwelling,  where  the  roar  of  the  sea 
was  always  heard. 

This  house,  a  heavy,  white,  rectangular  cube, 
chosen  by  its  inmates  upon  a  chance  indication 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  5 

(possibly  the  indications  of  chance  are  not  always 
without  design),  had  the  form  of  a  tomb.  Its  in- 
mates were  a  group  —  a  family  rather  —  of  pro- 
scribed persons.  The  eldest  was  one  of  those  men 
who  at  certain  moments  are  found  to  be  in  the 
way  in  their  country.  He  came  from  an  assem- 
bly; the  others,  who  were  young,  came  from 
prison.  To  have  written,  furnishes  a  justification 
for  bolts :  whither  should  reflection  lead,  if  not  to 
the  dungeon? 

The  prison  had  set  them  at  large  into  banish- 
ment. The  old  man,  the  father,  was  accompanied 
by  his  whole  family,  except  his  eldest  daughter, 
who  could  not  follow  him.  His  son-in-law  was 
with  her.  Often  were  they  leaning  round  a  table, 
or  seated  on  a  bench,  silent,  grave,  all  of  them 
secretly  thinking  of  those  two  absent  ones. 

Why  had  these  people  installed  themselves  in  a 
house  so  unattractive?  By  reason  of  haste,  and 
from  a  desire  to  be  as  soon  as  possible  anywhere 
but  at  the  inn.  Doubtless,  also,  because  it  was 
the  first  house  to  let  that  they  had  met  with,  and 
because  exiles  are  not  lucky. 

This  house  —  which  it  is  time  to  rehabilitate  a 
little  and  console ;  for  who  knows  whether,  in  its 
loneliness,  it  is  not  sad  at  what  we  have  just  said 
about  it?  A  house  has  a  soul  —  this  house  was 
called  Marine  Terrace.  The  arrival  was  mourn- 
ful ;  but,  after  all,  we  would  not  deny  that  the  stay 
in  it  was  agreeable,  and  Marine  Terrace  has  left  to 
those  who  then  dwelt  there  none  but  affectionate 
and  dear  remembrances.  And  what  we  say  of 
Marine  Terrace,  we  say  also  of  the  Island  of 


6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Jersey.  Places  of  suffering  and  trial  come  to 
have  a  kind  of  bitter  sweetness,  which  later  on 
causes  them  to  be  regretted;  they  have  a  stern 
hospitality  which  appeals  to  the  conscience. 

There  had  been,  before  them,  other  exiles  in 
that  island.  This  is  not  the  time  to  speak  of 
them.  We  mention  only  that  the  most  ancient 
of  whom  tradition,  or  perhaps  a  legend,  has  pre- 
served the  memory  was  a  Roman,  Vipsanius  Mi- 
nator,  who  employed  his  exile  in  extending,  in 
the  interest  of  his  country's  supremacy,  the  Ro- 
man wall  of  which  you  may  still  see  some  parts, 
like  bits  of  hillock,  near  a  bay  named,  I  think, 
St.  Catherine's  bay.  This  Vipsanius  Minator  was 
a  consular  dignitary,  an  old  Roman  so  infatu- 
ated with  Rome  that  he  stood  in  the  way  of  the 
Empire.  Tiberius  exiled  him  to  this  Cimmerian 
island,  Cczsarea ; l  according  to  others,  to  one 
of  the  Orkneys.  Tiberius  did  more ;  not  content 
with  exile,  he  decreed  oblivion.  It  was  forbidden 
to  the  orators  of  the  Senate  and  the  Forum  to  pro- 
nounce the  name  of  Vipsanius  Minator.  The  ora- 
tors of  the  Forum  and  the  Senate,  and  history,  have 
obeyed,  —  a  result  regarding  which  Tiberius,  for  that 
matter,  entertained  no  doubt.  That  arrogance  in 
commanding,  which  proceeded  so  far  as  to  give 
orders  to  men's  thoughts,  characterized  certain  an- 
cient governments  newly  arrived  at  one  of  those 
firm  situations  where  the  greatest  sum  of  crime 
produces  the  greatest  sum  of  security. 

Let  us  return  to  Marine  Terrace. 

1  The  ancient  name  of  the  Island  of  Jersey,  the  place  of  Hugo's 
exile.  — TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  7 

One  morning,  near  the  end  of  November,  two  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  place,  the  father  and  the 
youngest  of  the  sons,  were  seated  in  the  lower 
parlor.  They  were  silent,  like  shipwrecked  per- 
sons who  meditate. 

Without,  it  rained,  the  wind  blew,  the  house  was 
as  if  deafened  by  the  outer  roaring.  Both  went 
on  thinking,  absorbed,  perhaps,  by  thoughts  of 
this  coincidence  between  the  beginning  of  winter 
and  the  beginning  of  exile. 

Suddenly  the  son  raised  his  voice  and  asked  the 
father,  — 

"  What  think  you  of  this  exile?  " 

"  That  it  will  be  long." 

"  How  do  you  intend  to  employ  it?" 

The  father  answered,  "  I  shall  gaze  at  the 
ocean." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  father  was  the  first 
to  speak :  — 

"And  you?" 

"I,"  said  the  son,  "I  shall  translate  Shakespeare." 


CHAPTER   II. 

THERE  are,  indeed,  men  whose  souls  are  like  the 
sea.  Those  billows,  that  ebb  and  flood,  that  inex- 
orable going  and  coming,  that  noise  of  all  the  winds, 
that  blackness  and  that  translucency,  that  vegeta- 
tion peculiar  to  the  deep,  that  democracy  of  clouds 
in  full  hurricane,  those  eagles  flecked  with  foam, 


8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

those  wonderful  star-risings  reflected  in  mysterious 
agitation  by  millions  of  luminous  wave-tops, — con- 
fused heads  of  the  multitudinous  sea,  —  the  errant 
lightnings  which  seem  to  watch,  those  prodigious 
sobbings,  those  half-seen  monsters,  those  nights  of 
darkness  broken  by  howlings,  those  furies,  those 
frenzies,  those  torments,  those  rocks,  those  ship- 
wrecks, those  fleets  crushing  each  other,  mingling 
their  human  thunders  with  the  divine  thunders  and 
staining  the  sea  with  blood ;  then  that  charm,  that 
mildness,  those  festivals,  those  gay  white  sails,  those 
fishing-boats,  those  songs  amid  the  uproar,  those 
shining  ports,  those  mists  rising  from  the  shore, 
those  cities  at  the  horizon's  edge,  that  deep  blue  of 
sky  and  water,  that  useful  asperity,  that  bitter  savor 
which  keeps  the  world  wholesome,  that  harsh  salt 
without  which  all  would  putrefy ;  those  wraths  and 
those  appeasements,  that  all  in  one,  the  unforeseen 
amid  the  changeless,  the  vast  marvel  of  inexhaus- 
tibly varied  monotony,  that  smoothness  after  an 
upheaval,  those  hells  and  those  heavens  of  the 
unfathomed,  infinite,  ever-moving  deep,  —  all  this 
may  exist  in  a  mind,  and  then  that  mind  is  called 
genius,  and  you  have  ^Eschylus,  you  have  Isaiah, 
you  have  Juvenal,  you  have  Dante,  you  have 
Michael  Angelo,  you  have  Shakespeare;  and  it 
is  all  one  whether  you  look  at  these  souls  or  at 
the  sea.1 

1  The  reader  is  invited  to  compare  this  passage  with  the  elo- 
quent interpretation  of  it  at  the  beginning  of  Swinburne's  '  Study 
of  Shakespeare/  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

i.  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  was  born  at  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon,  in  a  house  under  the  tiles  of  which 
was  concealed  a  confession  of  the  Catholic  faith 
beginning  with  these  words,  "  I,  John  Shakespeare." 
John  was  the  father  of  William.  The  house,  situ- 
ated in  Henley  Street,  was  humble;  the  cham- 
ber in  which  Shakespeare  came  into  the  world, 
wretched:  the  walls  were  whitewashed,  the  black 
rafters  laid  crosswise ;  at  the  farther  end  was  a  tol- 
erably large  window  with  two  small  panes,  where 
you  may  read  to-day,  among  other  names,  that  of 
Walter  Scott.  This  poor  dwelling  sheltered  a  de- 
cayed family.  The  father  of  William  Shakespeare 
had  been  an  alderman ;  his  grandfather  had  been 
bailiff.  Shakespeare  signifies  "  shake-spear ;  "  the 
family  had  for  a  coat-of-arms  an  arm  holding  a 
spear,  —  allusive  arms,  confirmed,  they  say,  by 
Queen  Elizabeth  in  1595,  and  visible,  at  the  time 
we  write,  on  Shakespeare's  tomb  in  the  church  of 
Stratford-on-Avon.1  There  is  little  agreement  about 

1  An  application  for  a  grant  of  coat-armor  to  his  father  was 
made  in  1596,  and  another  in  1599;  but  the  matter  seems  to  have 
gone  no  farther  than  the  drafting  of  designs  by  the  heralds.  The 
poet's  relatives,  fhowever,  at  a  later  date  assumed  his  right  to 
the  coat  suggested  for  his  father  in  1596.  The  obvious  pun  upon 
the  name  was  not  overlooked  either  by  eulogists  or  by  defamers. 
For  example,  an  ancient  epigram  reads,  — 

"  Thou  hast  so  used  thy  Pen  (or  shook  thy  Speare) 
That  Poets  startle,  nor  thy  wit  come  neare."  —  TR. 


10  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

the  orthography  of  the  word  Shake-spear  as  a 
family  name ;  it  is  written  variously,  —  Shakspere, 
Shakespere,  Shakespeare,  Shakspeare:  in  the 
eighteenth  century  it  was  habitually  written  Shake- 
spear.  The  present  translator1  has  adopted  the 
spelling  Shakespeare  as  the  only  true  one,  and 
gives  for  it  unanswerable  reasons.  The  only  ob- 
jection 2  that  can  be  made  is  that  Shakspeare  is 
more  easily  pronounced  than  Shakespeare;  that 
cutting  off  the  e  mute  is  perhaps  useful ;  and  that 
in  the  interest  of  the  names  themselves  and  to 
facilitate  their  wider  currency,  posterity  has,  as 
regards  proper  names,  a  certain  euphonic  right.  It 
is  evident,  for  example,  that  in  French  poetry  the 
orthography  Shakspeare  is  necessary;  however, 
convinced  by  the  translator,  we  write,  in  prose, 
SJtakespeare. 

2.  The  Shakespeare  family  had  some  original 
drawback,  probably  its  Catholicism,  which  caused 
its  downfall.  A  little  after  the  birth  of  William, 
Alderman  Shakespeare  was  no  more  than  "  butcher 
John."  William  Shakespeare  made  his  dtbut  in  a 
slaughter-house.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  entered 
his  father's  shambles,  bared  his  arm,  and  killed 


*  That  is,  the  translator  of  Shakespeare's  works. 

2  This  "objection"  is  of  course  such  to  a  Frenchman  only. 
Indeed  this  whole  orthographical  excursus,  unintelligible  as  it  must 
be  to  the  English  reader,  is  retained  only  upon  the  general  princi- 
ple of  fidelity.  The  translator  referred  to  is  Fran?ois  Victor  Hugo 
(see  Preface).  It  may  be  added  that  out  of  the  scores  of  different 
spellings  of  the  name,  the  New  Shakspere  Society  has  adopted  the 
orthography  Shakspere,  upon  the  ground  that  it  was  so  spelled 
by  a  very  eminent  authority,  —  the  bearer  of  the  name  himself. 
—  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  \  i 

sheep  and  calves,  —  "  in  a  high  style,"  says  Aubrey. 
At  eighteen  he  married.  Between  the  days  of  the 
slaughter-house  and  the  marriage  he  composed 
a  quatrain.  This  quatrain,  directed  against  the 
neighboring  villages,  is  his  maiden  effort  in  poetry. 
He  there  says  that  Hillborough  is  illustrious  for  its 
ghosts,  and  Bidford  for  its  drunkards.  He  made 
this  quatrain  (being  tipsy  himself)  in  the  open 
air,  under  an  apple-tree  still  celebrated  in  the 
country  in  consequence  of  this  midsummer-night's 
dream.  In  this  night  and  in  this  dream,  where 
there  were  lads  and  lasses,  in  this  drunken  fit 
and  under  this  apple-tree,  he  discovered  that  Anne 
Hathaway  was  a  pretty  girl.1  The  wedding  fol- 
lowed. He  espoused  this  Anne  Hathaway,  older 
than  himself  by  eight  years,  had  a  daughter  by  her, 
then  twins,  boy  and  girl,  and  left  her;  and  this 
wife  disappears  from  Shakespeare's  life,  to  reappear 
only  in  his  will,  where  he  leaves  her  his  second-best 
bed,  "  having  probably,"  says  a  biographer,  "  em- 
ployed the  best  one  with  others."  Shakespeare, 
like  La  Fontaine,  did  but  sip  at  married  life.  His 
wife  being  put  aside,  he  was  a  schoolmaster,  then 
clerk  to  an  attorney,  then  a  poacher.  This  poach- 
ing was  made  use  of  later  to  justify  the  statement 

1  For  the  story,  which  Victor  Hugo  has,  after  his  fashion,  very 
much  improved  upon,  see  Halliwell-Phillipps's  '  Outlines  of  the 
Life  of  Shakespeare,'  3d  ed.,  pp.  205,  206,  and  the  accompanying 
"  illustrative  notes,"  pp.  354-359.  The  quatrain  referred  to  runs 


as  follows :  — 


"  Piping  Pebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Hillborough,  Hungry  Grafton, 
Dadgeing  Exhall,  Papist  Wicksford, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  Drunken  Bidford."  —  TR. 


12  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

that  Shakespeare  had  been  a  thief.  One  day  he 
was  caught  poaching  in  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park. 
They  threw  him  into  prison ;  they  began  proceed- 
ings. These  being  spitefully  followed  up,  he  saved 
himself  by  flight  to  London.  In  order  to  gain  a 
livelihood,  he  began  by  holding  horses  at  the  doors 
of  theatres.  Plautus  had  turned  a  millstone.  This 
business  of  holding  horses  at  the  doors  still  existed 
at  London  in  the  last  century,  and  it  brought  to- 
gether a  kind  of  small  band  or  corps  that  they 
called  "Shakespeare's  boys." 

3.  You  may  call  London  the  black  Babylon  — 
gloomy  by  day,  magnificent  by  night.  To  see 
London  is  a  sensation;  it  is  uproar  under  smoke 
—  mysterious  analogy:  uproar  is  the  smoke  of 
noise.  Paris  is  the  capital  of  one  side  of  hu- 
manity; London  is  the  capital  of  the  opposite 
side.  Splendid  and  melancholy  town !  There 
activity  is  tumult,  and  the  people  swarm  like 
ants.  One  is  free  there,  and  yet  confined.  Lon- 
don is  an  orderly  chaos.  The  London  of  the 
sixteenth  century  did  not  resemble  the  London 
of  our  day ;  but  it  was  already  an  immense  town. 
Cheapside  was  the  main  street;  St.  Paul's,  now  a 
dome,  was  then  a  spire.  The  plague  was  nearly 
as  much  at  home  in  London  as  in  Constantinople. 
There  was  not,  in  fact,  much  difference  between 
Henry  VIII.  and  a  sultan.  Fires  (as  in  Constanti- 
nople, again)  were  frequent  in  London,  on  account 
of  the  populous  parts  of  the  town  being  built 
entirely  of  wood.  In  the  streets  there  was  but 
one  carriage,  —  the  carriage  of  her  Majesty;  not 
a  cross-road  where  they  did  not  cudgel  some 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  13 

pickpocket  with  the  flail,1  which  is  still  retained 
at  Groningen  for  thrashing  wheat.  Manners  were 
rough,  almost  savage ;  a  fine  lady  rose  at  six, 
and  went  to  bed  at  nine.  Lady  Geraldine  Kildare, 
to  whom  Lord  Surrey  inscribed  verses,  break- 
fasted off  a  pound  of  bacon  and  a  pot  of  beer. 
Queens  —  the  wives  of  Henry  VIII.  —  knitted 
mittens,  and  did  not  even  object  to  their  being 
of  coarse  red  wool.  In  this  London  the  Duchess 
of  Suffolk  took  care  of  her  hen-house,  and,  with 
her  dress  tucked  up  to  her  knees,  threw  corn 
to  the  ducks  in  the  court  below.  To  dine  at 
midday  was  to  dine  late.  It  was  the  delight  of 
the  upper  classes  to  go  and  play  at  "  hot  cockles" 
at  my  Lord  Leicester's.  Anne  Boleyn  played 
there;  she  knelt  down,  with  eyes  bandaged,  for 
this  game,  without  knowing  that  she  was  rehears- 
ing for  a  play  of  a  different  kind  upon  the  scaffold. 
This  same  Anne  Boleyn,  destined  for  the  throne, 
whence  she  was  to  go  still  farther,  was  perfectly 
dazzled  when  her  mother  bought  her  three  linen 
chemises,  at  sixpence  the  ell,  and  promised  her, 
for  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  ball,  a  pair  of  new  shoes 
worth  five  shillings. 

4.  Under  Elizabeth,  in  spite  of  the  wrath  of 
the  Puritans,  there  were  in  London  eight  compa- 
nies of  actors,  —  those  of  Newington  Butts,  Earl 
Pembroke's  company,  Lord  Strange's  retainers, 
the  Lord  Chamberlain's  troop,  the  Lord  High 
Admiral's  troop,  the  company  of  Blackfriars,  the 
children  of  St.  Paul's,  and,  in  the  first  rank,  the 

1  A  purely  conjectural  translation,  Victor  Hugo's  word  being 
"drotschbloch."  —  TR. 


14  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Bear-baiters.  Lord  Southampton  went  to  the  play 
every  evening.  Nearly  all  the  theatres  were  situ- 
ated on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  —  a  fact  which 
increased  the  number  of  watermen.  The  play- 
rooms were  of  two  kinds:  some  merely  open 
tavern-yards,  a  platform  set  up  against  a  wall, 
no  ceiling,  rows  of  benches  placed  on  the  ground, 
for  boxes  the  windows  of  the  tavern.  The  per- 
formance took  place  in  the  broad  daylight  and 
in  the  open  air.  The  principal  of  these  theatres 
was  the  Globe.  The  others,  which  were  mostly 
closed  play-rooms,  lighted  with  lamps,  were  used 
at  night,  the  most  frequented  being  Blackfriars. 
The  best  actor  of  Lord  Pembroke's  troop  was 
named  Henslowe  ;  the  best  actor  at  Blackfriars 
was  Burbage.  The  Globe  was  situated  on  the 
bank-side.  This  is  known  by  a  document  at  Sta- 
tioners' Hall,  dated  the  26th  of  November,  1607: 
"  His  Majesty's  servants  playing  usually  at  the 
Globe,  on  the  Bank  Side."  The  scenery  was 
simple.  Two  swords  laid  crosswise  —  sometimes 
two  laths  —  signified  a  battle;  a  shirt  over  the 
coat  signified  a  knight;  a  broom-handle  draped 
with  the  petticoat  of  the  players'  hostess  signified 
a  palfrey  caparisoned.  A  rich  theatre,  which  made 
its  inventory  in  1598,  possessed  "the  limbs  of 
Moors,  a  dragon,  a  big  horse  with  his  legs,  a 
cage,  a  rock,  four  Turks'  heads  and  that  of  old 
Mahomet,  a  wheel  for  the  siege  of  London,  and 
a  hell's  mouth."  Another  had  "a  sun,  a  target, 
the  three  plumes  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  with  the 
device  Ich  Dien,  besides  six  devils,  and  the  Pope 
on  his  mule."  An  actor  besmeared  with  piaster. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  15 

and  motionless,  signified  a  wall;  if  he  spread  his 
fingers,  it  meant  that  the  wall  had  crevices.  A 
man  laden  with  a  faggot,  followed  by  a  dog,  and 
carrying  a  lantern,  meant  the  moon;  his  lantern 
represented  the  moonshine.  People  have  laughed 
at  this  mise  en  scene  of  moonlight,  made  famous 
by  the  '  Midsummer  Night's  Dream/  without  im- 
agining that  there  is  in  it  a  gloomy  suggestion 
from  Dante.  (See  '  The  Inferno/  canto  xx.)  The 
dressing-room  of  these  theatres,  where  the  actors 
robed  themselves  pell-mell,  was  a  corner  separated 
from  the  stage  by  a  rag  of  some  kind  stretched  on  a 
cord.  The  dressing-room  at  Blackfriars  was  shut  off 
by  an  ancient  piece  of  tapestry  which  had  belonged 
to  one  of  the  guilds,  and  represented  an  ironmonger's 
shop.  Through  the  holes  in  this  curtain,  hanging  in 
tatters,  the  public  saw  the  actors  rouge  their  cheeks 
with  brick-dust,  or  make  up  their  mustaches  with  a 
cork  burned  at  a  candle-end.  From  time  to  time, 
through  an  occasional  opening  of  the  curtain,  you 
might  see  a  face  begrimed  as  a  Moor,  peeping  to 
see  if  the  time  for  going  on  the  stage  had  arrived, 
or  the  glabrous  chin  of  an  actor  who  was  to  play 
the  part  of  a  woman.  "  Glabri  histriones,"  said 
Plautus.  These  theatres  were  frequented  by  no- 
blemen, scholars,  soldiers,  and  sailors.  There  was 
acted  Lord  Buckhurst's  tragedy,  entitled  '  Gor- 
boduc,  or  Ferrex  and  Porrex;'  Lyly's  'Mother 
Bombie/  in  which  the  cheep-cheep  of  sparrows  was 
heard ;  '  The  Libertine/  an  imitation  of  the  '  Con- 
vivado  de  Piedra/  which  was  making  the  tour 
of  Europe;  'Felix  and  Philomena/  a  fashionable 
comedy  performed  for  the  first  time  at  Greenwich 


1 6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

before  "Queen  Bess; "  'Promos  and  Cassandra/  a 
comedy  dedicated  by  the  author,  George  Whetstone, 
to  William  Fleetwood,  recorder  of  London ;  '  Tamer- 
lane '  and  the  '  Jew  of  Malta/  by  Christopher  Mar- 
lowe ;  farces  and  pieces  by  Robert  Greene,  George 
Peele,  Thomas  Lodge,  and  Thomas  Kyd ;  and  lastly, 
mediaeval  comedies.  For  just  as  France  has  her 
'  1'Avocat  Pathelin/  so  England  has  her  '  Gammer 
Gurton's  Needle.'  While  the  actors  gesticulated 
and  ranted,  the  noblemen  and  officers  —  with  their 
plumes  and  bands  of  gold  lace,  standing  or  squat- 
ting on  the  stage,  turning  their  backs,  haughty  and 
at  their  ease  in  the  midst  of  the  constrained  actors 
—  laughed,  shouted,  played  at  cards,  threw  them 
at  each  other's  heads,  or  played  at  "  post  and  pair ; " 
and  below,  in  the  darkness,  on  the  pavement,  among 
pots  of  beer  and  pipes,  the  "  stinkards,"  or  ground- 
lings, were  dimly  visible.  It  was  by  way  of  that 
very  theatre  that  Shakespeare  entered  upon  the 
dramatic  career.  From  being  a  tender  of  horses, 
he  became  a  shepherd  of  men. 

5.  Such  was  the  theatre  in  London  about  the 
year  1580,  under  "the  great  Queen."  It  was  not 
much  less  wretched,  a  century  later,  at  Paris,  un- 
der "  the  great  King  ;  "  and  Moliere,  at  his  dttut, 
had,  like  Shakespeare,  to  make  shift  with  rather 
miserable  playhouses.  There  is  in  the  archives  of 
the  '  Comedie  Frangaise '  an  unpublished  manu- 
script of  four  hundred  pages,  bound  in  parchment 
and  tied  with  a  band  of  white  leather.  It  is  the 
diary  of  Lagrange,  a  comrade  of  Moliere.  La- 
grange  thus  describes  the  theatre  where  Moliere's 
company  played  by  order  of  Mr.  Rataban,  super- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  17 

intendent  of  the  King's  buildings :  "  Three  rafters, 
the  frames  rotten  and  shored  up,  and  half  the  room 
roofless  and  in  ruin."  In  another  place,  under  date 
of  Sunday,  the  I5th  of  March,  1671,  he  says  : 
"  The  company  have  resolved  to  make  a  large  ceil- 
ing over  the  whole  hall,  which,  up  to  the  said  date 
(i5th)  has  not  been  covered,  save  by  a  large  blue 
cloth  suspended  by  cords."  As  for  the  lighting 
and  heating  of  this  hall,  particularly  on  the  occa- 
sion when  such  extraordinary  sums  were  spent 
upon  the  performance  of  '  Psyche,'  which  was  by 
Moliere  and  Corneille,  we  read  :  "  Candles,  thirty 
francs  ;  janitor  for  wood,  three  francs."  This  was 
the  style  of  playhouse  which  "  the  great  King " 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  Moliere.  These  bounties 
to  literature  did  not  impoverish  Louis  XIV.  so 
much  as  to  deprive  him  of  the  pleasure  of  giving, 
at  one  time,  two  hundred  thousand  livres  to  Lavar- 
din,  and  the  same  to  D'Epernon  ;  two  hundred 
thousand  livres,  besides  the  regiment  of  France,  to 
the  Count  de  Medavid  ;  four  hundred  thousand 
livres  to  the  Bishop  of  Noyon,  because  this  Bishop 
was  a  Clermont-Tonnerre,  a  family  that  had  two 
patents  of  Count  and  Peer  of  France,  one  for  Cler- 
mont  and  one  for  Tonnerre ;  five  hundred  thou- 
sand livres  to  the  Duke  of  Vivonne,  seven  hundred 
thousand  livres  to  the  Duke  of  Quintin-Lorges, 
and  eight  hundred  thousand  livres  to  Monseigneur 
Clement  of  Bavaria,  Prince-Bishop  of  Liege.  Let 
us  add  that  he  gave  a  thousand  livres  pension  to 
Moliere.  We  find  in  Lagrange's  journal,  in  the 
month  of  April,  1663,  this  remark  :  "About  the 
same  time  M.  de  Moliere  received,  as  a  great  wit, 

2 


1 8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

a  pension  from  the  King,  and  has  been  placed  on 
the  civil  list  for  the  sum  of  a  thousand  livres." 
Later,  when  Moliere  was  dead,  and  interred  at  St. 
Joseph,  "  chapel  of  ease  to  the  parish  of  St.  Eus- 
tache,"  the  King  pushed  his  patronage  so  far  as  to 
permit  his  tomb  to  be  "  raised  a  foot  out  of  the 
ground." 

6.  Shakespeare,  as  we  see,  remained  a  long  time 
on  the  threshold  of  theatrical  life,  —  outside,  rather, 
and  in  the  street.  At  length  he  entered.  He 
passed  the  door  and  got  behind  the  scenes.  He 
succeeded  in  becoming  call-boy,  vulgarly,  a  "  bark- 
er." About  1586  Shakespeare  was  "  barking"  with 
Greene  at  Blackfriars.  In  1587  he  gained  a  step. 
In  the  piece  called  '  The  Giant  Agrapardo,  King 
of  Nubia,  worse  than  his  late  brother,  Angulafer,' 
Shakespeare  was  intrusted  with  the  task  of  carry- 
ing the  turban  to  the  giant.  Then  from  supernu- 
merary he  became  actor,  —  thanks  to  Burbage,  to 
whom,  long  after,  by  an  interlineation  in  his  will, 
he  left  thirty-six  shillings  to  buy  a  gold  ring.  He 
was  the  friend  of  Condell  and  Hemynge,  —  his 
comrades  while  alive,  his  publishers  after  his  death. 
He  was  handsome  :  he  had  a  high  forehead,  his 
beard  was  brown,  his  manner  was  gentle,  his  mouth 
pleasant,  his  eye  profound.  He  took  delight  in 
reading  Montaigne,  translated  by  Florio.  He  fre- 
quented the  Apollo  Tavern,  where  he  would  see 
and  keep  company  with  two  frequenters  of  his 
theatre,  —  Decker,  author  of  *  The  Gull's  Horn- 
book/ in  which  a  chapter  is  specially  devoted  to 
"  the  way  a  man  of  fashion  ought  to  behave  at  the 
play,"  and  Dr.  Simon  Forman,  who  has  left  a 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  19 

manuscript  journal  containing  reports  of  the  first 
performance  of  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice '  and 
'The  Winter's  Tale.'1  He  used  to  meet  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  at  the  Mermaid  Club.  Somewhere 
about  that  time  Mathurin  Regnier  met  Philippe  de 
Bethune  at  La  Pomme  de  Pin.  The  great  lords 
and  fine  gentlemen  of  the  day  were  rather  prone 
to  lend  their  names  in  order  to  start  new  taverns. 
At  Paris  the  Vicomte  de  Montauban,  who  was  a 
Crequi,  had  founded  Le  tripot  des  onze  mille  Diables. 
At  Madrid  the  Duke  of  Medina  Sidonia,  the  un- 
fortunate admiral  of  the  Invincible  Armada,  had 
founded  the  Puno-en-rostro,  and  in  London  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  had  founded  the  Mermaid.  There 
drunkenness  and  wit  kept  company. 

7.  In  1589,  while  James  VI.  of  Scotland,  look- 
ing to  the  throne  of  England,  was  paying  his  re- 
spects to  Elizabeth,  who,  two  years  before,  on  the 
8th  of  February,  1587,  had  beheaded  Mary  Stuart, 
mother  of  this  James,  Shakespeare  composed  his 
first  drama,  'Pericles'  [i6o8].2  In  1591,  while 
the  Catholic  King  was  dreaming,  after  a  scheme  of 
the  Marquis  d'Astorga,  of  a  second  Armada,  more 
lucky  than  the  first,  inasmuch  as  it  was  never 

1  Inexact ;  nothing  is  known  of  the  first  representation  of  '  The 
Merchant  of  Venice.'     Dr.  Forman  records  representations  of  but 
three  plays, — 'Macbeth,'  'Cymbeline,'  and  'The  Winter's  Tale;' 
and  it  does  not  appear  that  these  were  first  representations.  —  TR. 

2  As  the  chronology  of  the  plays  here  given  is  very  different 
from   that    accepted    at    present,   the    translator  has  inserted,   in 
brackets,  after  the  name  of  each  play,  the  dates  found  in  Dow- 
den's  '  Shakspere  Primer.'     To  that  excellent  little  book  the  un- 
initiated reader  is  referred  for  a  general   correction  of   Hugo's 
biography  of  Shakespeare,  which  is  to  some  extent  legendary  or 
fabulous.  —  TR. 


2O  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

launched,  he  composed  'Henry  VI.'  In  1593, 
when  the  Jesuits  obtained  from  the  Pope  express 
permission  to  paint  "the  pains  and  torments  of 
hell"  on  the  walls  of  "the  chamber  of  meditation" 
of  Clermont  College,  where  they  often  shut  up  a 
poor  youth  who,  the  year  after,  became  famous 
under  the  name  of  Jean  Chatel,  he  composed  '  The 
Taming  of  the  Shrew'  [1594-97  ?].  In  1594, 
when,  looking  daggers  at  each  other,  and  ready  for 
battle,  the  King  of  Spain,  the  Queen  of  England, 
and  even  the  King  of  France,  all  three  were  saying 
"  my  good  city  of  Paris,"  he  continued  and  com- 
pleted 'Henry  VI.'  [1591-92].  In  1595,  while 
Clement  VIII.  at  Rome  was  solemnly  striking 
Henry  IV.  with  his  crosier  over  the  backs  of  Car- 
dinals du  Perron  and  d'Ossat,  he  wrote  '  Timon  of 
Athens'  [1607-8].  In  1596,  the  year  when  Eliz- 
abeth published  an  edict  against  the  long  points 
of  bucklers,  and  when  Philip  II.  drove  from  his 
presence  a  woman  who  had  laughed  while  blowing 
her  nose,  he  composed  '  Macbeth '  [1606].  In 
1597,  when  this  same  Philip  II.  said  to  the  Duke 
of  Alva,  "  You  deserve  the  axe,"  not  because  the 
Duke  of  Alva  had  put  the  Low  Countries  to  fire 
and  sword,  but  because  he  had  entered  the  King's 
presence  without  being  announced,1  he  composed 
'Cymbeline'  [1609]  and  'Richard  III.'  [1593]. 
In  1598,  when  the  Earl  of  Essex  ravaged  Ireland, 
wearing  on  his  hat  the  glove  of  the  Virgin  Queen 

1  The  Duke  of  Alva  who  put  the  Netherlands  to  fire  and 
sword  died  in  1582.  His  memory  may  therefore  be  relieved  of 
the  stain  of  having  entered  the  King's  presence  unannounced  in 
1597  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  21 

Elizabeth,  he  composed  '  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona'  [1592-93],  '  King  John '  [ 1 595 ],  '  Love's 
Labor's  Lost'  [1590],  '  The  Comedy  of  Errors' 
[1591],  'All's  Well  that  Ends  Well'  [1601-2], 
'A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream'  [1593-94],  and 
'The  Merchant  of  Venice'  [1596].  In  1599, 
when  the  Privy  Council,  at  her  Majesty's  request, 
deliberated  on  the  proposal  to  put  Dr.  Hayward  to 
the  rack  for  having  stolen  some  of  the  ideas  of 
Tacitus,  he  composed  '  Romeo  and  Juliet '  [two 
dates:  1591,  1596-97?].  In  1600,  while  the  Em- 
peror Rudolph  was  waging  war  against  his  rebel 
brother,  and  sentencing  his  son,  murderer  of  a 
woman,  to  be  bled  to  death,  he  composed  '  As 
You  Like  It'  [1599],  'Henry  IV.'  [1597-98], 
'Henry  V.'  [1599],  and  'Much  Ado  About  No- 
thing' [1598].  In  1601,  when  Bacon  published 
the  eulogy  on  the  execution  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,1 
just  as  Leibnitz,  eighty  years  afterwards,  was  to 
find  out  good  reasons  for  the  murder  of  Monaldes- 
chi  (with  this  difference,  however,  that  Monaldeschi 
was  nothing  to  Leibnitz,  and  that  Essex  had  been 
the  benefactor  of  Bacon),  he  composed  '  Twelfth 
Night  ;  or,  What  you  Will'  [1600-1].  In  1602, 
while,  in  obedience  to  the  Pope,  the  King  of 
France,  styled  by  Cardinal-nephew  Aldobrandini 
"  The  Fox  of  Beam,"  was  counting  his  beads  every 
day,  reciting  the  litanies  on  Wednesday,  and  the 

1  The  author  here  confuses  two  works,  —  the  'Declaration  of 
the  Practices  and  Treasons  of  Essex'  (1601),  in  which  Bacon's 
part  was  little  more  than  that  of  amanuensis  to  the  Government, 
and  his  '  Apology  in  Certain  Imputations  concerning  the  Late 
Earl  of  Essex'  (1604).  — TR. 


22  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

rosary  of  the  Virgin  Mary  on  Saturday  ;  while 
fifteen  cardinals,  assisted  by  the  heads  of  the  Or- 
ders, were  opening-  the  discussion  on  Molinism  at 
Rome  ;  and  while  the  Holy  See,  at  the  request  of 
the  Crown  of  Spain,  was  "  saving  Christianity  and 
the  world  "  by  the  institution  of  the  congregation 
de  Auxiliis,  —  he  composed  '  Othello  '  [1604] .  In 
1603,  when  the  death  of  Elizabeth  made  Henry 
IV.  say,  "  she  was  a  virgin  just  as  I  am  a  Catholic/' 
he  composed  '  Hamlet '  [1602].  In  1604,  while 
Philip  III.  was  losing  his  last  footing  in  the  Low 
Countries,  he  wrote  'Julius  Caesar'  [1601]  and 
'  Measure  for  Measure'  [1603].  In  1604,  at  the 
time  when  James  I.  of  England,  the  former  James 
VI.  of  Scotland,  wrote  against  Bellarmin  the  *  Tor- 
tura  Torti/  and,  faithless  to  Carr,  began  to  smile 
upon  Villiers,  who  was  afterwards  to  honor  him 
with  the  title  of  "  Your  Piggishness,"  he  composed 
*  Coriolanus  '  [1608].  In  1607,  when  the  Univer- 
sity of  York  received  the  little  Prince  of  Wales  as 
doctor,  according  to  the  account  of  Father  St.  Ro- 
muald,  "  with  all  the  ceremonies  and  the  usual  fur 
gowns,"  he  wrote  '  King  Lear '  [1605-6].  In  1609, 
while  the  magistracy  of  France,  placing  the  scaf- 
fold at  the  disposition  of  the  King,  gave  upon  trust 
a  carte  blanche  for  the  sentence  of  the  Prince  of 
Conde  "  to  such  punishment  as  it  might  please  his 
Majesty  to  order,"  Shakespeare  composed  '  Troi- 
lus  and  Cressida  '  [1603?  revised  1607?].  In 
1610,  when  Ravaillac  assassinated  Henry  IV.  by 
the  dagger,  and  the  French  Parliament  assassinated 
Ravaillac  by  the  process  of  quartering  his  body, 
Shakespeare  composed  'Antony  and  Cleopatra' 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2$ 

[1607],  In  1611,  while  the  Moors,  driven  out  by 
Philip  III.,  were  crawling  out  of  Spain  in  the  pangs 
of  death,  he  wrote  'The  Winter's  Tale'  [1610-11], 
'Henry  VIII.'  [1612-13],  and  'The  Tempest' 
[1610]. 

8.  He  used  to  write  on  loose  scraps  of  paper,  — 
like  nearly  all  poets,  for  that  matter.  Malherbe  and 
Boileau  are  almost  the  only  ones  who  have  written 
on  sheets  folded  and  stitched.  Racan  said  to  Mile, 
de  Gournay,  "  I  have  this  morning  seen  M.  de  Mal- 
herbe sewing  with  coarse  gray  thread  a  fascicle  of 
white  paper,  on  which  will  soon  appear  some  son- 
nets." Each  of  Shakespeare's  dramas,  composed 
according  to  the  wants  of  his  company,  was  in  all 
probability  learned  and  rehearsed  in  haste  by  the 
actors  from  the  original  itself,  as  they  had  not  time 
to  copy  it;  hence  in  his  case,  as  in  Moliere's,  the 
dismemberment  and  loss  of  manuscripts.  There 
were  few  or  no  entry  books  in  those  almost  itine- 
rant theatres;  no  coincidence  in  time  between 
representation  and  publication  of  the  plays  ;  some- 
times not  even  a  printed  copy,  the  stage  remaining 
the  sole  medium  of  publication.  When  the  pieces 
by  chance  are  printed,  they  bear  titles  which  bewil- 
der us.  The  second  part  of '  Henry  VI.'  is  entitled 
'  The  First  Part  of  the  Contention  between  York 
and  Lancaster.'  The  third  part  is  called  '  The  True 
Tragedy  of  Richard,  Duke  of  York.'1  All  this 
enables  us  to  understand  why  so  much  obscurity 
rests  on  the  dates  when  Shakespeare  composed  his 
dramas,  and  why  it  is  difficult  to  fix  them  with 

1  The  plays  thus  entitled  are  older  ones,  of  which  '  Henry  VI.' 
Parts  II.  and  III.  are  recasts.  —  TR. 


24  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

precision.  The  dates  which  we  have  just  given  - 
here  brought  together  for  the  first  time  —  are  pretty 
nearly  certain;  notwithstanding  some  doubt  still 
exists  as  to  the  years  when  were  written,  or  even 
played,  '  Timon  of  Athens/  '  Cymbeline/  'Julius 
Caesar,'  '  Antony  and  Cleopatra,'  '  Coriolanus/  and 
'  Macbeth.'  Here  and  there  we  meet  with  barren 
years;  others  there  are  of  which  the  fertility  seems 
excessive.  It  is,  for  instance,  on  a  simple  note  by 
Meres,  the  author  of  'The  Wit's  Treasury,'  that 
we  are  compelled  to  attribute  to  the  year  1598  the 
creation  of  six  pieces,  —  '  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,'  '  The  Comedy  of  Errors/  '  King  John/ 
'  Midsummer  Night's  Dream/  '  The  Merchant  of 
Venice/  and  'All's  Well  that  Ends  Well/  which 
Meres  calls  '  Love's  Labour  's  Won.' l  The  date  of 
'  Henry  VI.'  is  fixed,  for  the  First  Part  at  least,  by 
an  allusion  which  Nash  makes  to  this  play  in  '  Pierce 
Penniless.'  The  year  1604  is  given  as  that  of 
'  Measure  for  Measure/  inasmuch  as  this  piece  was 
played  on  St.  Stephen's  Day  of  that  year,  —  a  circum- 
stance of  which  Hemynge  makes  a  special  note ; 
and  the  year  1611  for  '  Henry  VIII. /  inasmuch  as 
'  Henry  VIII.'  was  played  at  the  time  of  the  burning 
of  the  Globe  Theatre.2  Various  circumstances  —  a 
disagreement  with  his  company,  a  whim  of  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  —  sometimes  compelled  Shakespeare 

l-  Francis  Meres  published  in  1598  his  '  Palladis  Tamia  :  Wit's 
Treasury,'  in  which  he  enumerates  not  six  but  twelve  of  Shake- 
speare's plays.  This 'mention  of  course  merely  proves  the  exist- 
ence of  the  plays  in  1598 ;  he  does  not  state  that  any  of  them  were 
produced  in  that  year.  —  TR. 

2  This  "  most  celebrated  theatre  the  world  has  ever  seen  "  was 
destroyed  by  fire  on  Tuesday,  June  29,  1613.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2$ 

to  change  from  one  theatre  to  another.  '  The 
Taming  of  the  Shrew '  was  played  for  the  first  time 
in  1593,  at  Henslowe's  theatre;1  'Twelfth  Night' 
in  1601,  at  Middle  Temple  Hall ;  '  Othello  '  in  1602, 
at  Harefield  Castle.2  '  King  Lear '  was  played  at 
Whitehall  during  Christmas  (1607)  before  James  I.8 
Burbage  created  the  part  of  Lear.  Lord  South- 
ampton, recently  set  free  from  the  Tower  of  Lon- 
don, was  present  at  this  performance.  This  Lord 
Southampton  was  an  old  frequenter  of  Blackfriars, 
and  Shakespeare,  in  1589,*  had  dedicated  the  poem 
of  '  Venus  and  Adonis '  to  him.  Adonis  was  the 
fashion  at  that  time  ;  twenty-five  years  after  Shake- 
speare, the  Chevalier  Marini  wrote  a  poem  on 
Adonis  which  he  dedicated  to  Louis  XIII. 

9.  In  1597  Shakespeare  lost  his  son,  of  whom 
the  only  trace  on  earth  is  one  line  in  the  death- 
register  of  the  parish  of  Stratford-on-Avon :  "  1 597. 
August  17.  Hamnet.  Filius  William  Shakespeare" 
On  the  6th  of  September,  1601,  the  poet's  father, 
John  Shakespeare,  died.  He  was  now  the  head  of 
his  company  of  actors.  James  I.  had  given  him  in 
1607  the  management  of  Blackfriars,  and  afterward 
the  privilege  of  the  Globe.  In  1613,  the  Princess 
Elizabeth,  daughter  of  James,  and  the  Elector  Pala- 
tine, King  of  Bohemia,  whose  statue  may  be  seen 
in  the  ivy  at  the  angle  of  a  great  tower  at  Heidel- 
berg, came  to  the  Globe  to  see  '  The  Tempest' 

1  This  must  have  been  the  older  play,  *  The  Taming  of  a  Shrew,' 
published  in  1594.  —  TR. 

2  Halliwell-Phillipps  ('  Outlines,'  p.  180)  says  that  'Othello  '  is 
first  heard  of  in  1604.  — TR. 

3  The  true  date  is  Dec.  26,  1606.  —TR. 

*  'Venus  and  Adonis  '  was  published  in  1593.  —  TR. 


26  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

performed.  These  royal  attendances  did  not  save 
him  from  the  censure  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 
A  certain  interdict  weighed  upon  his  pieces,  the 
representation  of  which  was  tolerated,  and  the 
printing  now  and  then  forbidden.  In  the  second 
volume  of  the  register  at  Stationers'  Hall  you  may 
read  to-day,  on  the  margin  of  the  title  of  three 
pieces,  '  As  You  Like  It,'  '  Henry  V.,'  *  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing,'  the  words  "  4  Augt.  to  be  staled" 
The  motives  for  these  interdictions  escape  us. 
Shakespeare  was  able,  for  instance,  without  arous- 
ing protest,  to  place  upon  the  stage  his  former 
poaching  adventure,  and  make  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy 
a  witling  (Justice  Shallow) ;  to  show  the  public 
Falstaff  killing  the  buck  and  belaboring  Shallow's 
people ;  and  to  push  the  likeness  so  far  as  to  give 
to  Shallow  the  arms  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  —  an 
Aristophanic  piece  of  audacity  by  a  man  who  did 
not  know  Aristophanes.  Falstaff,  in  Shakespeare's 
manuscripts,  was  written  "  Falstaffe."  In  the  mean- 
time he  had  amassed  some  wealth,  as  did  Moliere 
later.  Towards  the  end  of  the  century  he  was  rich 
enough  for  a  certain  Richard  Quiney  to  ask,  on  the 
8th  of  October,1  1598,  his  assistance  in  a  letter  which 
bears  the  superscription,  "  To  my  loveing  good 
ffrend  and  countreyman  Mr.  Wm.  Shackespere  delr 
thees."  He  refused  the  assistance,  as  it  appears, 
and  returned  the  letter,  which  was  found  afterwards 
among  Fletcher's  papers,  and  on  the  back  of  which 
this  same  Richard  Quiney  had  written  Histrio ! 

1  The  author  has  the  date  wrong.  It  should  be  the  25th  of 
October.  The  letter  is  signed  "  Rye.  Quyney"  which  Hugo  prints 
thus :  "  Ryc-Quiney.n  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  27 

Mima  ! 1  Shakespeare  loved  Stratford-on-Avon, 
where  he  was  born,  where  his  father  had  died,  where 
his  son  was  buried.  He  there  bought  or  built  a 
house,  which  he  christened  "  New  Place."  We 
say,  "  bought  or  built  a  house ;  "  for  he  bought  it 
according  to  Whiterill,  and  he  built  it  according 
to  Forbes,  and  on  this  point  Forbes  disputes  with 
Whiterill.2  These  cavils  of  the  learned  about  tri- 
fles are  not  worth  being  searched  into,  particularly 
when  we  see  Father  Hardouin,  for  instance,  com- 
pletely upset  a  whole  passage  of  Pliny  by  replacing 
nos  pridern  by  non  pridem. 

10.  Shakespeare  went  from  time  to  time  to 
pass  some  days  at  New  Place.  Half-way  upon 
the  short  journey  he  encountered  Oxford,  and  at 
Oxford  the  Crown  Inn,  and  at  the  inn  the  hostess, 
a  beautiful,  intelligent  creature,  wife  of  the  worthy 
innkeeper,  Davenant.  In  1606  Mrs.  Davenant  was 
brought  to  bed  of  a  son,  whom  they  named  Wil- 
liam; and  in  1644  Sir  William  Davenant,  created 
knight  by  Charles  I.,  wrote  to  Rochester:  "Know 
this,  which  does  honor  to  my  mother,  —  I  am  the 
son  of  Shakespeare;"  thus  allying  himself  to  Shake- 
speare in  the  same  way  that  in  our  days  M.  Lucas- 
Montigny  has  claimed  relationship  with  Mirabeau. 

1  Halliwell-Phillipps,  who  gives  at  p.  144  of  the  '  Outlines  '  a 
fac-simile  of  this,  the  only  letter  directly  addressed  to  Shakespeare 
known  to  exist,  is  silent  about  this  part  of  the  anecdote.     The  let- 
ter was  found  in  the  Corporation  archives  at  Stratford. —  TR. 

2  Shakespeare  bought  the  Great  House,  or  New  Place,  in  the 
spring  of  1 597.    For  interesting  particulars,  see  Halliwell-Phillipps's 
'Outlines,'  pp.  116  ff.,  and  R.  G.  White's  'Life  and  Genius  of 
Shakespeare/  p.  121.     An  exhaustive  account  of  it  is  given  in  the 
appendix  to  the  '  Outlines,'  pp.  447-479.  —  TR. 


28  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare  had  married  his  two  daughters,  — 
Susanna  to  a  doctor,  Judith  to  a  merchant.  Su- 
sanna was  clever,  but  Judith  knew  not  how  to  read 
or  write,  and  signed  her  name  with  a  cross.  In 
1613  it  happened  that  Shakespeare,  having  come 
to  Stratford-on-Avon,  had  no  further  desire  to 
return  to  London.  Perhaps  he  was  in  difficul- 
ties. He  had  just  been  compelled  to  mortgage 
his  house.  The  contract  deed  of  this  mortgage, 
dated  the  nth  of  March,  1613,  and  indorsed 
with  Shakespeare's  signature,  was  in  the  last  cen- 
tury in  the  hands  of  an  attorney,  who  gave  it  to 
Garrick,  who  lost  it.  Garrick  lost  likewise  (it  is 
Mile.  Violetti,  his  wife,  who  tells  the  story)  Forbes's 
manuscript,  with  his  letters  in  Latin.  From  1613 
Shakespeare  remained  at  his  house  at  New  Place, 
occupied  with  his  garden,  forgetting  his  plays, 
wholly  devoted  to  his  flowers.  He  planted  in 
this  garden  of  New  Place  the  first  mulberry-tree 
that  was  grown  at  Stratford, — just  as  Queen  Eliza- 
beth wore,  in  1561,  the  first  silk  stockings  seen  in 
England.  On  the  25th  of  March,  1616,  feeling  ill, 
he  made  his  will.  His  will,  dictated  by  him,  is 
written  on  three  pages ;  he  signed  each  of  them 
with  a  trembling  hand.  On  the  first  page  he 
signed  only  his  Christian  name,  "  William ;"  on 
the  second,  "  Willm.  Shaspr. ;  "  on  the  third, 
"  William  Shasp."  1  On  the  23d  of  April  he  died. 

1  This  statement  of  the  form  of  the  poet's  signatures  to  his  will 
is  incorrect.  The  surname  is  signed  in  full  in  each  case.  All 
Shakespeare's  authentic  signatures  are  conveniently  exhibited  in 
fac-simile  at  the  end  of  Charles  Knight's  '  Biography  of  Shakspere/ 
In  at  least  five  of  the  six  signatures  the  spelling  is  apparently 
Shakspere ;  in  the  other  (the  last  upon  the  will)  it  is  obscure.  The 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  29 

He  had  that  day  reached  the  exact  age  of  fifty-two 
years,  having  been  born  on  the  23d  of  April,  1564. 
On  that  same  day,  23d  April,  1616,  died  Cervantes, 
a  genius  of  like  stature.  When  Shakespeare  died, 
Milton  was  eight  years,  and  Corneille  ten  years  of 
age ;  Charles  I.  and  Cromwell  were  two  youths,  the 
one  of  sixteen,  the  other  of  seventeen  years. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  life  was  greatly  embittered.  He 
lived  perpetually  slighted.  Posterity  may  read  this 
to-day  in  his  familiar  verses :  — 

"  Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdu'd 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand : 
Pity  me,  then,     .     .     . 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eysel."  Sonnet  in. 

"  Your  love  and  pity  doth  th'  impression  fill 
Which  vulgar  scandal  stamp'd  upon  my  brow." 

Sonnet  112. 

"  Nor  thou  with  public  kindness  honor  me, 
Unless  thou  take  that  honor  from  thy  name." 

Sonnet  36. 

"  Or  on  my  frailties  why  are  frailer  spies." 

Sonnet  12 1. 

Shakespeare  had  permanently  near  him  one 
envious  person,  Ben  Jonson,  an  indifferent  comic 

common  spelling,  Shakespeare,  is  based  upon  "  the  mode  in  which 
it  was  usually  printed  during  the  poet's  life."  —  TR. 


30  WILLTAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

poet,  whose  first  steps  he  had  aided.1  Shake- 
speare was  thirty-nine  when  Elizabeth  died.  This 
Queen  had  not  paid  much  attention  to  him ;  she 
managed  to  reign  forty-four  years  without  recog- 
nizing Shakespeare.  None  the  less  is  she  histori- 
cally styled  "  protectress  of  arts  and  letters,"  etc. 
The  historians  of  the  old  school  gave  these  certifi- 
cates to  all  princes,  whether  they  knew  how  to 
read  or  not. 

Shakespeare,  persecuted  as,  at  a  later  date,  was 
Moliere,  sought,  like  Moliere,  to  lean  on  the  mas- 
ter. Shakespeare  and  Moliere  would  in  our  days 
have  had  a  loftier  spirit.  The  master  was  Eliza- 
beth, "  King  Elizabeth,"  as  the  English  say.  Shake- 
speare glorified  Elizabeth :  he  called  her  "  the  Virgin 
Star,"  "  Star  of  the  West,  "and  "  Diana,"  — a  name 
divine  which  pleased  the  Queen ;  but  in  vain. 
The  Queen  took  no  notice  of  it,  —  less  sensitive 
to  the  praises  in  which  Shakespeare  called  her 
"  Diana"  than  to  the  insults  of  Scipio  Gentilis,  who, 
taking  the  pretensions  of  Elizabeth  on  the  bad 
side,  called  her  "  Hecate,"  and  applied  to  her  the 
ancient  triple  curse,  Mormo  !  Bombo  !  Gorgo!  As 
for  James  I.,  whom  Henry  IV.  called  "  Master 
James,"  he  gave,  as  we  have  seen,  the  privilege  of 
the  Globe  to  Shakespeare,  but  he  willingly  forbade 
the  publication  of  his  pieces.  Some  contempora- 

1  Only  the  last  clause  of  the  sentence  is  accurate.  For  the 
nature  of  the  important  service  rendered  by  Shakespeare  to  Ben 
Jonson,  see  Halliwell-Phillipps's  'Outlines,'  pp.  148-150.  That 
Ben  Jonson  was  envious  of  Shakespeare  is  doubtless  as  untrue 
as  that  he  was  an  "  indifferent  poet."  "  I  loved  the  man,"  he  said 
after  Shakespeare's  death,  "  and  do  honor  his  memory,  on  this 
side  idolatry,  as  much  as  any."  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  3  I 

ries,  Dr.  Simon  Forman  among  others,  so  far  took 
notice  of  Shakespeare  as  to  make  a  note  of  the 
occupation  of  an  evening  passed  at  the  perform- 
ance of  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice  !  ' l  That  was 
all  he  knew  of  glory.2  Shakespeare,  once  dead, 
entered  into  oblivion. 

From  1640  to  1660  the  Puritans  abolished  art 
and  shut  up  the  play-houses.  The  whole  theatre 
was  shrouded  as  in  a  winding-sheet.  With  Charles 
II.  the  drama  revived,  without  Shakespeare.  The 
false  taste  of  Louis  XIV.  had  invaded  England. 
Charles  II.  belonged  rather  to  Versailles  than 
London.  He  had  as  mistress  a  French  girl,  the 
Duchess  of  Portsmouth,  and  as  an  intimate  friend 
the  privy  purse  of  the  King  of  France.  Clifford, 
his  favorite,  who  never  entered  the  Parliament- 
house  without  spitting,  said :  "  It  is  better  for  my 
master  to  be  viceroy  under  a  great  monarch  like 
Louis  XIV.  than  to  be  the  slave  of  five  hundred 
insolent  English  subjects."  These  were  no  longer 
the  days  of  the  Commonwealth,  —  the  time  when 
Cromwell  took  the  title  of  "  Protector  of  England 
and  France,"  and  forced  this  same  Louis  XIV.  to 
accept  the  title  of  "  King  of  the  French." 

1  See  note  p.  19. 

2  Apart  from  the  commendatory  verses  prefixed  to  the  folio  of 
1623,  Halliwell-Phillipps  ('Outlines,'  pp.   569-582)  cites   no  less 
than  eighteen  contemporary  references  by  name  to  the  great  dram- 
atist, substantially  all  of  them  eulogistic.     It  would  be  strange 
indeed  if  that  pre-eminently  dramatic  age  should  have  left  the 
discovery  of  Shakespeare's  genius  as  a  playwright  to  be  made  in 
an  age  of  dramatic  decay.     Considering  that  no  one  took  pains 
to  preserve  testimony  of  any  kind  with  reference  to  Shakespeare, 
the  evidence  of  his  great  popularity  —  not  to  say  pre-eminence  — 
in  his  own  time  is  in  truth  remarkably  abundant.  —  TR. 


32  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Under  this  restoration  of  the  Stuarts,  Shake- 
speare's eclipse  became  complete.  He  was  so 
thoroughly  dead  that  Davenant,  his  putative  son, 
recomposed  his  pieces.  There  was  no  longer  any 
'  Macbeth  '  but  the  '  Macbeth '  of  Davenant.  Dry- 
den  speaks  of  Shakespeare  on  one  occasion  in 
order  to  say  that  he  is  "  out  of  date." l  Lord 
Shaftesbury  calls  him  "  a  wit  out  of  fashion."  Dry- 
den  and  Shaftesbury  were  two  oracles.  Dryden,  a 
converted  Catholic,  had  two  sons,  ushers  in  the 
chamber  of  Clement  XI. ;  he  made  tragedies  wor- 
thy of  being  put  into  Latin  verse,  as  Atterbury's 
hexameters  prove,  and  he  was  the  servant  of  that 
James  II.  who,  before  he  became  king  on  his  own  ac- 
count, had  asked  of  his  brother,  Charles  II.,  "Why 
don't  you  hang  Milton  ?  "  The  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
bury, a  friend  of  Locke,  was  the  man  who  wrote 
an  '  Essay  on  Sprightliness  in  Important  Conversa- 
tions/ and  who,  by  the  manner  in  which  Chancellor 
Hyde  helped  his  daughter  to  the  wing  of  a  chicken, 
divined  that  she  was  secretly  married  to  the  Duke 
of  York. 

These  two  men  having  condemned  Shakespeare, 
the  oracle  had  spoken.  England,  a  country  more 
obedient  to  conventional  opinion  than  is  generally 

1  Dryden  spoke  of  Shakespeare  often,  sometimes  critically,  but 
always  with  the  highest  respect.  It  was  he  who  wrote  in  the  pro- 
logue to  '  The  Tempest :  '  — 

"  But  Shakespeare's  magic  could  not  copied  be  ; 
Within  that  circle  none  durst  walk  but  he." 

And  in  the  dedication  to  •  The  Rival  Ladies,'  he  refers  to  Shake- 
speare as  one  "  who,  with  some  errors  not  to  be  avoided  in  that 
age,  had  undoubtedly  a  larger  soul  of  poesy  than  ever  any  of  our 
nation."  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


33 


believed,  forgot  Shakespeare.  Some  purchaser 
pulled  down  his  house,  New  Place.  A  Rev.  Dr. 
Cartrell  cut  down  and  burned  his  mulberry-tree. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century  the 
eclipse1  was  total.  In  1707,  a  certain  Nahum  Tate 
published  a  '  King  Lear,'  informing  his  readers 
"  that  he  had  borrowed  the  idea  of  it  from  a  play 
which  he  had  read  by  chance,  the  work  of  some 
nameless  author."  This  "  nameless  author "  was 
Shakespeare.2 

1  Victor  Hugo's  smoked  glass  very  much  darkens  the  "  eclipse  " 
of  Shakespeare  at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.     Ge- 
rard Langbaine,  in  his  'Account  of  the  English  Dramatick  Poets' 
(Oxford,  1691),  says:  "I  esteem  his  plays  beyond  any  that  have 
ever  been  published  in  our  language."     Again :  "  I  should  think  I 
were  guilty  of  an  injury  beyond  pardon  to  his  memory,  should  I 
so  far  disparage  it  as  to  bring  his  wit  in  competition  with  any  in 
our  age."     That  Langbaine  was  not  alone  in  thinking  thus,  there 
is  plenty  of  evidence.     See  foot-note,  p.  32.  —  TR. 

2  The  statement  that  Tate  styled  the  original  '  Lear '  the  work 
of  "  some  nameless  author  "  is  piquant,  but  untrue.     His  Dedica- 
tion names  Shakespeare  repeatedly,  and  "  in  a  tone  of  reverence." 
He  speaks  of  his  own  work  as  a  "revival"  of  Shakespeare's,  and 
his  Epilogue  concludes  with,  — 

"This  Play's  Reviver  humbly  do's  admit 
Your  abs'lute  POWT  to  damn  his  part  of  it : 
But  still  so  many  Master-Touches  shine 
Of  that  vast  Hand  that  first  laid  this  Design 
That  in  great  Shakespear1  s  right,  He 's  bold  to  say, 
If  you  like  nothing  you  have  seen  this  Day, 
The  Play  your  Judgment  damns,  not  you  the  Play." 

It  may  be  added  that  Victor  Hugo  advances  by  about  a  quarter 
of  a  century  the  date  of  Tate's  "  revival "  of  '  Lear,'  which  had 
been  before  the  public  seven  or  eight  years  when  Langbaine 
wrote  the  remarks  quoted  in  the  preceding  note.  The  reader 
may  be  willing  to  be  reminded  that  this  "  certain  "  Nahum  Tate 
succeeded  Shadwell  (Dryden's  successor)  as  poet  laureate  of 
England.  —  TR. 


34  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  1728  Voltaire  imported  from  England  to 
France  the  name  of  Will  Shakespeare;  only,  in- 
stead of  Will,  he  pronounced  it  Gilles. 

Jeering  began  in  France,  and  oblivion  continued 
in  England.  What  the  Irishman  Nahum  Tate  had 
done  for  '  King  Lear/  others  did  for  other  pieces. 
'All's  Well  that  Ends  Well'  had  successively 
two  "  arrangers,"  Pilon  for  the  Haymarket,  and 
Kemble  for  Drury  Lane.  Shakespeare  existed  no 
longer,  and  counted  no  longer.  '  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing '  served  likewise  as  a  rough  draft  twice, — 
for  Davenant  in  1673;  for  James  Miller  in  1737. 
'  Cymbeline  '  was  recast  four  times,  —  under  James 
II.,  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  by  Thomas  Dursey;  in 
1695  by  Charles  Marsh;  in  1759  by  W.  Hawkins; 
in  1761  by  Garrick.  '  Coriolanus  '  was  recast  four 
times,  —  in  1682,  for  the  Theatre  Royal,  by  Tate; 
in  1720,  for  Drury  Lane,  by  John  Dennis;  in 
1755,  for  Covent  Garden,  by  Thomas  Sheridan; 
in  1801,  for  Drury  Lane,  by  Kemble.  '  Timon  of 
Athens '  was  recast  four  times,  —  at  the  Duke's 
Theatre,  in  1678,  by  Shadwell;  in  1768,  at  the 
theatre  of  Richmond  Green,  by  James  Love ;  in 
1771,  at  Drury  Lane,  by  Cumberland;  in  1786,  at 
Covent  Garden,  by  Hull. 

In  the  eighteenth  century  the  persistent  raillery 
of  Voltaire  finally  produced  in  England  a  cer- 
tain revival  of  interest.  Garrick,  while  correcting 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  35 

Shakespeare,  played  him,  and  acknowledged  that 
it  was  Shakespeare  that  he  played.  They  reprinted 
him  at  Glasgow.  An  imbecile,  Malone,  made  com- 
mentaries on  his  plays,  and,  as  a  logical  sequence, 
whitewashed  his  tomb.  There  was  on  this  tomb  a 
little  bust,  of  a  doubtful  resemblance,  and  indiffer- 
ent as  a  work  of  art,  but  venerable  from  the  fact 
that  it  was  contemporaneous  with  Shakespeare. 
It  is  after  this  bust  that  all  the  portraits  of  Shake- 
speare have  been  made  that  we  now  see.  The 
bust  was  whitewashed.  Malone,  critic  and  white- 
washer  of  Shakespeare,  spread  a  coat  of  plaster 
over  his  face,  and  of  stupid  nonsense  over  his 
work. 


BOOK     II. 

MEN    OF    GENIUS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

HIGH  Art,  using  this  word  in  its  absolute  sense, 
is  the  region  of  Equals. 

Before  going  farther,  let  us  fix  the  value  of 
this  expression,  "Art,"  which  often  occurs  in  this 
book. 

We  speak  of  Art  as  we  speak  of  Nature.  Here 
are  two  terms  of  almost  indeterminate  meaning; 
to  pronounce  the  one  or  the  other  of  these  words 
—  Nature,  Art — is  to  make  a  conjuration,  to  call 
forth  the  ideal  from  the  deeps,  to  draw  aside  one 
of  the  two  great  curtains  of  the  divine  creation. 
God  manifests  himself  to  us  in  the  first  degree 
through  the  life  of  the  universe,  and  in  the  second 
through  the  thought  of  man.  The  second  mani- 
festatioa  is  not  less  holy  than  the  first.  The  first 
is  named  Nature,  the  second  is  named  Art.  Hence 
this  reality :  the  poet  is  a  priest. 

There  is  here  below  a  pontiff,  —  it  is  genius. 
Sacerdos  Magnus. 

Art  is  the  second  branch  of  Nature. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  37 

Art  is  as  natural  as  Nature. 

By  the  word  GOD  —  let  us  fix  the  sense  of  this 
word  also  —  we  mean  the  Living  Infinite. 

The  latent  Ego  of  the  visible  Infinite,  that  is 
God. 

God  is  the  invisible  made  evident. 

The  world  concentrated,  is  God.  God  expanded, 
is  the  world. 

We,  who  are  speaking,  believe  in  nothing  out  of 
God. 

That  being  said,  let  us  proceed.  God  creates 
Art  by  man,  having  for  a  tool  the  human  intellect. 
The  great  Workman  has  made  this  tool  for  himself; 
he  has  no  other. 

Forbes,  in  the  curious  little  work  perused  by 
Warburton  and  lost  by  Garrick,  affirms  that  Shake- 
speare devoted  himself  to  the  practice  of  magic, 
that  magic  was  in  his  family,  and  that  what  little 
good  there  was  in  his  pieces  was  dictated  to  him 
by  a  familiar  spirit. 

Let  us  say  concerning  this  —  for  we  must  not 
draw  back  from  any  question  that  may  arise  — 
that  it  has  been  a  strange  error  of  all  ages  to 
desire  to  give  the  human  intellect  assistance  from 
without.  Antrum  adjuvat  vatem.  The  work  ap- 
pearing superhuman,  people  wish  to  exhibit  the 
intervention  of  the  extra-human :  in  antiquity,  the 
tripod ;  in  our  days,  the  table.  The  table  is  nothing 
but  the  tripod  come  again.  To  accept  in  a  literal 
sense  the  demon  that  Socrates  talks  of,  the  bush 
of  Moses,  the  nymph  of  Numa,  the  spirit  of 
Plotinus,  and  Mahomet's  dove,  is  to  be  the  victim 
of  a  metaphor. 


38  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  table,  turning  or  talking, 
has  been  very  much  laughed  at.  To  speak  plainly, 
this  raillery  is  out  of  place.  To  replace  inquiry  by 
mockery  is  convenient,  but  not  very  scientific. 
For  our  part,  we  think  that  the  strict  duty  of 
Science  is  to  test  all  phenomena.  Science  is  ig- 
norant, and  has  no  right  to  laugh :  a  savant  who 
laughs  at  the  possible,  is  very  near  being  an  idiot. 
The  unexpected  ought  always  to  be  expected  by 
Science.  Her  duty  is  to  stop  it  in  its  course  and 
search  it,  rejecting  the  chimerical,  establishing  the 
real.  Science  has  but  the  right  to  put  a  visa  on 
facts;  she  should  verify  and  distinguish.  All  hu- 
man knowledge  is  but  picking  and  culling.  The 
circumstance  that  the  false  is  mingled  with  the 
true,  furnishes  no  excuse  for  rejecting  the  whole 
mass.  When  was  the  tare  an  excuse  for  refusing 
the  corn?  Hoe  out  the  weed  error,  but  reap  the 
fact,  and  place  it  beside  others.  Science  is  the 
sheaf  of  facts. 

The  mission  of  Science  is  to  study  and  sound 
everything.  All  of  us,  according  to  our  degree, 
are  the  creditors  of  investigation ;  we  are  its  debt- 
ors also.  It  is  due  to  us,  and  we  owe  it  to  others. 
To  evade  a  phenomenon,  to  refuse  to  pay  it  that 
attention  to  which  it  has  a  right,  to  bow  it  out,  to 
show  it  the  door,  to  turn  our  back  on  it  laughing, 
is  to  make  truth  a  bankrupt,  and  to  leave  the 
signature  of  Science  to  be  protested.  The  phe- 
nomenon of  the  tripod  of  old,  and  of  the  table 
of  to-day,  is  entitled,  like  anything  else,  to  inves- 
tigation. Psychic  science  will  gain  by  it,  without 
doubt.  Let  us  add,  that  to  abandon  phenomena 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  39 

to  credulity,  is  to  commit  treason  against  human 
reason. 

Homer  affirms  that  the  tripods  of  Delphi  walked 
of  their  own  accord;  and  he  explains  the  fact 
(book  xviii.  of  the  '  Iliad ')  by  saying  that  Vulcan 
forged  invisible  wheels  for  them.  The  explanation 
does  not  much  simplify  the  phenomenon.  Plato 
relates  that  the  statues  of  Daedalus  gesticulated  in 
the  darkness,  had  wills  of  their  own,  and  resisted 
their  master,  and  that  he  was  obliged  to  tie  them 
up,  so  that  they  might  not  walk  off.  Strange  dogs 
at  the  end  of  a  chain  !  Fiddlier  mentions,  at  page 
52  of  his  'History  of  Theodosius,'  —  referring  to 
the  great  conspiracy  of  the  magicians  of  the  fourth 
century  against  the  Emperor,  —  a  tipping  table,  of 
which  we  shall  perhaps  speak  elsewhere,  in  order 
to  say  what  Flechier  did  not  say,  and  seemed  not 
to  know.  This  table  was  covered  with  a  round 
plating  of  several  metals,  ex  diversis  metallicis 
materiis  fabrefacta,  like  the  copper  and  zinc  plates 
employed  at  present  in  biological  investigation. 
So  it  appears  that  this  phenomenon,  always  re- 
jected and  always  reappearing,  is  not  an  affair  of 
yesterday. 

Besides,  whatever  credulity  has  said  or  thought 
about  it,  this  phenomenon  of  the  tripods  and  tables 
is  without  any  connection  with  the  inspiration  of 
the  poets,  —  an  inspiration  entirely  direct.  This  is 
the  point  at  which  we  have  been  aiming.  The 
sibyl  has  a  tripod,  the  poet  none;  the  poet  is 
himself  a  tripod,  the  tripod  of  divinity  itself.  God 
has  not  made  this  marvellous  distillery  of  thought, 
—  the  brain  of  man,  —  in  order  to  make  no  use  of 


40  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

it.  The  man  of  genius  has  need  of  no  apparatus 
but  his  brain ;  through  it  his  every  thought  must 
pass.  Thought  ascends,  and  buds  from  the  brain, 
as  the  fruit  from  the  root  Thought  is  the  resul- 
tant of  man ;  the  root  plunges  into  the  earth,  the 
brain  into  God,  —  that  is  to  say,  into  the  Infinite. 

Those  who  imagine  (there  are  such,  witness 
Forbes)  that  a  poem  like  '  Le  Medecin  de  son 
Honneur'  or  '  King  Lear'  can  be  dictated  by  a 
tripod  or  a  table,  err  in  a  strange  fashion ;  these 
works  are  the  works  of  man.  God  has  no  need 
to  make  a  piece  of  wood  aid  Shakespeare  or 
Calderon. 

Then  let  us  set  aside  the  tripod.  Poetry  is  the 
poet's  own.  Let  us  be  respectful  before  the  possi- 
ble, of  which  no  one  knows  the  limit.  Let  us  be 
attentive  and  serious  before  the  extra-human,  out 
of  which  we  come,  and  which  awaits  us ;  but  let 
us  not  degrade  the  great  workers  of  the  world 
by  hypotheses  of  a  mysterious  assistance  which 
is  not  necessary;  let  us  leave  to  the  brain  that 
which  belongs  to  it,  and  agree  that  the  productions 
of  genius  are  a  superhuman  offspring  of  man. 


CHAPTER  II. 

SUPREME  Art  is  the  region  of  Equals.  There 
is  no  primacy  among  masterpieces. 

Like  water,  which  heated  to  a  hundred  degrees 
will  bear  no  increase  of  temperature,  human  thought 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  41 

attains  in  certain  men  its  maximum  intensity. 
yEschylus,  Job,  Phidias,  Isaiah,  Saint  Paul,  Juve- 
nal, Dante,  Michael  Angelo,  Rabelais,  Cervantes, 
Shakespeare,  Rembrandt,  Beethoven,  with  some 
others,  rise  to  the  hundredth  degree  of  genius. 

The  human  mind  has  a  summit,  —  the  ideal;  to 
this  summit  God  descends,  man  rises. 

In  each  age  three  or  four  men  of  genius  under- 
take the  ascent.  From  below,  the  world's  eyes 
follow  them.  These  men  go  up  the  mountain, 
enter  into  the  clouds,  disappear,  reappear.  People 
watch  them,  mark  them.  They  skirt  precipices; 
a  false  step  would  not  displease  certain  of  the 
lookers-on.  They  daringly  pursue  their  road.  See 
them  aloft,  already  afar;  they  are  no  longer  any- 
thing but  black  specks.  "  How  small  they  are  ! " 
says  the  crowd.  They  are  giants.  On  they  go. 
The  road  is  rugged,  the  scarped  cliff  resists  them. 
At  each  step  a  wall,  at  each  step  a  pitfall.  As 
they  rise,  the  cold  increases.  They  must  make 
their  ladder,  cut  the  ice,  and  walk  on  it,  converting 
obstacles  into  a  stairway.  Every  storm  is  raging. 
Nevertheless,  these  madmen  make  their  way.  The 
air  becomes  difficult  to  breathe,  the  abyss  widens 
around  them.  Some  fall:  they  have  done  well. 
Others  stop,  and  retrace  their  steps;  there  is  sad 
weariness.  Some  intrepid  ones  continue ;  the  elect 
persevere.  The  dreadful  declivity  crumbles  be- 
neath them  and  seeks  to  sweep  them  away;  glory 
is  treacherous.  Eagles  eye  them  ;  lightnings  blunt 
their  bolts  upon  them;  the  hurricane  is  furious. 
No  matter,  they  persist,  they  press  upward.  He 
who  reaches  the  summit  is  thy  equal,  O  Homer! 


42  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Repeat  the  names  we  have  mentioned,  and  those 
which  we  might  have  added.  To  choose  between 
these  men  is  impossible.  There  is  no  method 
for  striking  the  balance  between  Rembrandt  and 
Michael  Angelo. 

Confining  ourselves  solely  to  the  authors  and 
poets,  let  us  examine  them  one  after  the  other. 
Which  is  the  greatest  ?  Every  one. 

I.  One,  Homer,  is  the  huge  poet-child.  The 
world  is  born,  Homer  sings :  he  is  the  bird  of  this 
dawn.  Homer  has  the  holy  candor  of  morning. 
The  shadow  is  almost  unknown  to  him.  Chaos, 
heaven,  earth,  Geo  and  Ceto,  Jove  god  of  gods, 
Agamemnon  king  of  kings,  peoples,  flocks  from 
the  beginning,  temples,  towns,  battles,  harvests,  the 
ocean  ;  Diomedes  fighting,  Ulysses  wandering; 
the  meanderings  of  a  ship  seeking  its  home ;  the 
Cyclops,  the  Pygmies ;  a  map  of  the  world  with  a 
crown  of  gods  upon  Olympus,  and  here  and  there 
a  glimpse  of  Erebus  through  furnace-mouths ; 
priests,  virgins,  mothers,  little  children  frightened 
by  the  plumes,  the  unforgetting  dog,  great  words 
which  fall  from  gray-beards,  loving  friendships,  the 
passions  and  the  hydras,  Vulcan  for  the  laugh  of 
the  gods,  Thersites  for  the  laugh  of  men ;  the  two 
aspects  of  married  life  summed  up  for  the  benefit 
of  the  centuries  in  Helen  and  in  Penelope;  the 
Styx,  Destiny,  the  heel  of  Achilles,  without  which 
Destiny  would  be  vanquished  by  the  Styx ;  mon- 
sters, heroes,  men,  a  thousand  perspectives  glimps- 
ing in  the  haze  of  the  antique  world, — this  is  Homer. 
Troy  coveted,  Ithaca  longed  for.  Homer  is  war 
and  travel, — the  two  first  methods  for  the  meeting  of 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  43 

mankind.  The  camp  attacks  the  fortress,  the  ship 
attacks  the  unknown  by  penetrating  it ;  around  war 
every  passion  ;  around  travel  every  kind  of  adven- 
ture; two  gigantic  groups:  the  first,  bloody,  is 
called  the  '  Iliad/  the  second,  luminous,  is  called 
the  '  Odyssey.'  Homer  makes  men  preternatu- 
rally  big ;  they  hurl  at  each  other  masses  of  rock 
which  twelve  yoke  of  oxen  could  not  move ;  the 
gods  hardly  care  to  have  to  deal  with  them.  Min- 
erva takes  Achilles  by  the  hair;  he  turns  around 
in  anger:  "What wouldst  thou  with  me,  goddess?" 
There  is,  however,  no  monotony  in  these  puissant 
figures.  These  giants  are  graduated.  After  each 
hero,  Homer  breaks  the  mould.  Ajax  son  of 
Olleus  is  less  high  in  stature  than  Ajax  son  of 
Telamon.  Homer  is  one  of  the  men  of  genius  who 
solve  that  fine  problem  of  art,  —  the  finest  of  all, 
perhaps,  —  truly  to  depict  humanity  by  the  en- 
largement of  man:  that  is,  to  generate  the  real 
in  the  ideal.  Fable  and  history,  hypothesis  and 
tradition,  the  chimera  and  knowledge,  make  up 
Homer.  He  is  fathomless,  and  he  is  cheerful. 
All  the  depth  of  ancient  days  moves,  radiant  and 
luminous,  in  the  vast  azure  of  his  mind.  Lycur- 
gus,  that  peevish  sage,  half  a  Solon  and  half  a 
Draco,  was  conquered  by  Homer.  He  turned  out 
of  the  way,  while  travelling,  to  go  and  read,  at  the 
house  of  Cleophilus,  Homer's  poems,  placed  there 
in  remembrance  of  the  hospitality  that  Homer, 
it  is  said,  had  formerly  received  in  that  house. 
Homer,  to  the  Greeks,  was  a  god ;  he  had  priests, 
the  Homerides.  Alcibiades  gave  a  rhetorician  a 
cuff  for  boasting  that  he  had  never  read  Homer. 


44  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

The  divinity  of  Homer  has  survived  Paganism. 
Michael  Angelo  said,  "  When  I  read  Homer,  I 
look  at  myself  to  see  if  I  am  not  twenty  feet  in 
height."  Tradition  will  have  it  that  the  first  verse 
of  the  *  Iliad '  is  a  verse  of  Orpheus  ;  and  this 
tradition,  doubling  Homer  by  Orpheus,  increased 
in  Greece  the  religion  of  Homer.  The  shield  of 
Achilles,  book  xviii.  of  the  '  Iliad,'  was  explained 
in  the  temples  by  Banco,  daughter  of  Pythagoras. 
Homer,  like  the  sun,  has  planets.  Virgil  who 
writes  the  '  yEneid/  Lucan  who  writes  the  '  Pharsa- 
lia,'  Tasso  who  writes  the  'Jerusalem,'  Ariosto  with 
his  'Roland,'  Milton  with  'Paradise  Lost,'  Camoens 
with  the  '  Lusiad,'  Klopstock  with  the  '  Messiah/ 
Voltaire  with  the  '  Henriade,'  all  gravitate  about 
Homer,  and,  sending  back  to  their  own  moons 
his  light  reflected  at  different  angles,  move  at  un- 
equal distances  within  his  boundless  orbit.  Such 
is  Homer;  such  is  the  beginning  of  the  epic. 

2.  Another,  Job,  begins  the  drama.  This  em- 
bryo is  a  colossus.  Job  begins  the  drama,  now 
forty  centuries  ago,  by  placing  Jehovah  and  Satan 
in  presence  of  each  other ;  the  evil  defies  the  good, 
and  behold  !  the  action  is  begun.  The  scene  is  laid 
upon  the  earth,  and  man  is  the  field  of  battle ;  the 
plagues  are  the  actors.  One  of  the  wildest  grand- 
eurs of  this  poem  is,  that  in  it  the  sun  is  baleful. 
The  sun  is  in  Job  as  in  Homer;  but  it  is  no  longer 
the  dawn,  it  is  high  noon.  The  mournful  oppres- 
sion of  the  brazen  ray,  falling  perpendicularly  on 
the  desert,  pervades  the  poem,  which  is  heated  to 
a  white  heat.  Job  sweats  on  his  dunghill.  The 
shadow  of  Job  is  small  and  black,  and  hidden  under 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  45 

him,  as  the  snake  under  the  rock.  Tropical  flies 
buzz  on  his  sores.  Job  has  above  his  head  the 
frightful  Arabian  sun  —  a  breeder  of  monsters,  an 
intensifier  of  plagues,  which  changes  the  cat  into 
the  tiger,  the  lizard  into  the  crocodile,  the  pig  into 
the  rhinoceros,  the  snake  into  the  boa,  the  nettle 
into  the  cactus,  the  wind  into  the  simoom,  the 
miasma  into  the  pestilence.  Job  is  anterior  to 
Moses.  Afar  in  the  ages,  by  the  side  of  Abraham 
the  Hebrew  patriarch,  there  is  Job  the  Arabian 
patriarch.  Before  being  tried,  he  had  been  happy : 
"  this  man  was  the  greatest  of  all  the  men  of  the 
East,"  says  his  poem.  This  was  the  laborer-king : 
he  exercised  the  immense  priesthood  of  solitude : 
he  sacrificed  and  sanctified.  Toward  evening  he 
gave  the  earth  the  blessing,  the  berakah.  He  was 
learned ;  he  was  acquainted  with  rhythm ;  his 
poem,  of  which  the  Arabian  text  is  lost,  was  written 
in  verse :  this,  at  least,  is  certain  from  verse  3  of 
chap.  iii.  to  the  end.  He  was  good;  he  did  not 
meet  a  poor  child  without  throwing  him  the  small 
coin  kesitha  ;  he  was  "  the  foot  of  the  lame,  and  the 
eye  of  the  blind."  It  is  from  this  that  he  has  fallen  : 
fallen,  he  becomes  gigantic.  The  whole  poem  of 
Job  is  the  development  of  this  idea,  —  the  greatness 
that  may  be  found  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit.  Job  is 
more  majestic  when  unfortunate  than  when  prosper- 
ous; his  leprosy  is  a  robe  of  purple.  His  misery 
terrifies  those  who  are  there ;  they  speak  not  to  him 
until  after  a  silence  of  seven  days  and  seven  nights. 
His  lamentation  is  marked  by  a  certain  tranquil  and 
gloomy  magianism.  While  crushing  the  vermin  on 
his  ulcers,  he  apostrophizes  the  stars.  He  addresses 


46  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Orion,  the  Hyades,  —  which  he  names  the  Plei- 
ades, —  and  "  the  chambers  of  the  south."  He 
says,  "  God  setteth  an  end  to  darkness."  He  calls 
the  diamonds  which  are  hidden,  "  the  stones  of 
darkness."  He  mingles  with  his  own  distress  the 
misfortune  of  others,  and  has  tragic  words  that 
freeze,  —  "  the  widow  is  empty."  l  He  smiles  also, 
and  is  then  still  more  terrible.  He  has  around  him 
Eliphaz,  Bildad,  Zophar,  three  implacable  types  of 
the  friendly  busybody,  of  whom  he  says,  "  You 
play  on  me  as  on  a  tambourine."  His  language, 
submissive  toward  God,  is  bitter  toward  kings : 
"  kings  and  counsellors  of  the  earth,  which  built 
desolate  places  for  themselves,"  —  leaving  our  wit 
to  find  out  whether  he  speaks  of  their  tomb  or  of 
their  kingdom.  Tacitus  says,  solitudinem  faciunt. 
As  to  Jehovah,  Job  adores  him;  and  under  the 
furious  scourging  of  the  plagues,  all  his  resistance 
is  confined  to  asking  of  God :  "  How  long  wilt  thou 
not  depart  from  me,  nor  let  me  alone  till  I  swallow 
down  my  spittle?"  That  dates  from  four  thousand 
years  ago.  At  the  same  hour,  perhaps,  when  the 
enigmatical  astronomer  of  Denderah  carves  in  the 
granite  his  mysterious  zodiac,  Job  engraves  his  on 
human  thought;  and  his  zodiac  is  not  made  of 
stars,  but  of  miseries.  This  zodiac  turns  yet  above 
our  heads.  We  have  of  Job  only  the  Hebrew  ver- 
sion, attributed  to  Moses.  The  thought  of  such  a 
poet,  followed  by  such  a  translator,  is  impressive : 
the  man  of  the  dunghill  translated  by  the  man  of 
Sinai !  Job  is  in  reality  a  priest  and  a  seer.  Job 

1  Is  this  an  error  ?    Job  xxii.  9  reads,  "  Thou  hast  sent  widows 
away  empty."    And  where  is  the  next  quotation  found  ?  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  47 

extracts  from  his  drama  a  dogma ;  he  suffers,  and 
draws  an  inference.  Now,  to  suffer  and  draw  an 
inference  is  to  teach ;  sorrow  leads  logically  to  God. 
Job  teaches;  having  touched  the  summit  of  the 
drama,  he  stirs  the  depths  of  philosophy.  He  first 
shows  that  sublime  madness  of  wisdom  which,  two 
thousand  years  later,  in  resignation  making  itself 
a  sacrifice,  will  be  the  foolishness  of  the  cross  — 
stultitiam  crucis.  The  dunghill  of  Job,  transfigured, 
will  become  the  Calvary  of  Jesus. 

3.  Another,  ^schylus,  enlightened  by  the  un- 
conscious divination  of  genius,  without  suspecting 
that  he  has  behind  him,  in  the  East,  the  resignation 
of  Job,  completes  it,  unwittingly,  by  the  revolt  of 
Prometheus ;  so  that  the  lesson  may  be  complete, 
and  that  the  human  race,  to  whom  Job  has  taught 
but  duty,  shall  feel  in  Prometheus  the  dawn  of 
right.  There  is  something  ghastly  in  ^Eschylus 
from  one  end  to  the  other;  there  is  a  vague  out- 
line of  an  extraordinary  Medusa  behind  the  figures 
in  the  foreground.  yEschylus  is  splendid  and  for- 
midable ;  as  though  you  saw  a  frowning  brow  above 
the  sun.  He  has  two  Cains,  Eteocles  and  Polyni- 
ces ;  Genesis  has  but  one.  His  troop  of  Oceanides 
comes  and  goes  under  a  dark  sky,  like  a  flock  of 
driven  birds.  ^Eschylus  has  none  of  the  recognized 
proportions.  He  is  shaggy,  abrupt,  excessive,  un- 
susceptible of  softened  contour,  almost  savage,  with 
a  grace  all  his  own  like  that  of  the  flowers  of  wild 
nooks,  less  haunted  by  the  nymphs  than  by  the 
furies,  siding  with  the  Titans,  among  the  goddesses 
choosing  the  austere  and  greeting  the  Gorgons 
with  a  sinister  smile,  like  Othryx  and  Briareus  a 


48  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

son  of  the  soil,  and  ready  to  scale  the  skies  anew 
against  the  upstart  Jupiter.  ^Eschylus  is  ancient 
mystery  made  man  ;  something  like  a  Pagan 
prophet.  His  work,  if  we  had  it  all,  would  be  a 
kind  of  Greek  Bible.  Poet  hundred-handed,  having 
an  Orestes  more  fatal  than  Ulysses  and  a  Thebes 
grander  than  Troy,  hard  as  rock,  tumultuous  like 
the  foam,  full  of  steeps,  torrents,  and  precipices, 
and  such  a  giant  that  at  times  one  might  take  him 
for  a  mountain.  Coming  later  than  the  '  Iliad/  he 
has  the  air  of  an  elder  brother  of  Homer. 

4.  Another,  Isaiah,  seems  placed  above  human- 
ity, and  resembles  a  rumbling  of  continual  thun- 
der. He  is  the  great  reproacher.  His  style,  a 
kind  of  nocturnal  cloud,  is  lighted  up  with  images 
which  suddenly  empurple  all  the  depths  of  his 
obscure  thought,  and  make  us  exclaim,  "  It  light- 
ens !  "  Isaiah  engages  in  battle,  hand  to  hand, 
with  the  evil  which,  in  civilization,  makes  its  ap- 
pearance before  the  good.  He  cries  "  Silence  !  " 
at  the  noise  of  chariots,  of  festivals,  of  triumphs. 
The  foam  of  his  prophecy  falls  even  on  Nature  ; 
he  gives  Babylon  over  to  the  moles  and  bats,  Nin- 
eveh to  the  briers,  Tyre  to  ashes,  Jerusalem  to 
night;  he  fixes  a  date  for  oppressors,  warns  the 
powers  of  their  approaching  end,  assigns  a  day 
against  idols,  against  high  citadels,  against  the  fleets 
of  Tarsus,  against  all  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  and 
against  all  the  oaks  of  Bashan.  He  stands  upon 
the  threshold  of  civilization,  and  he  refuses  to 
enter.  He  is  a  kind  of  mouthpiece  of  the  desert 
speaking  to  the  multitudes,  and  demanding,  in  the 
name  of  the  sands,  the  brambles,  and  the  winds, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  49 

the  sites  of  the  cities.  And  this  upon  the  score 
of  justice :  because  the  tyrant  and  the  slave,  that 
is  to  say,  pride  and  shame,  exist  wherever  there 
are  walled  enclosures ;  because  evil  is  there  in- 
carnate in  man ;  because  in  solitude  there  is  but 
the  beast,  while  in  the  city  there  is  the  monster. 
Those  things  with  which  Isaiah  reproached  his  time, 
—  idolatry,  debauchery,  war,  prostitution,  ignor- 
ance, —  still  exist.  Isaiah  is  the  undying  contem- 
porary of  the  vices  that  make  themselves  servants, 
and  of  the  crimes  that  make  themselves  kings. 

5.  Another,  Ezekiel,  is  the  wild  soothsayer:  a 
genius  of  the  cavern,  whose  thought  is  best  ex- 
pressed by  a  beast-like  growling.  But  listen.  This 
savage  makes  a  prophecy  to  the  world,  —  the  pro- 
phecy of  progress.  Nothing  more  astonishing. 
Ah  !  Isaiah  overthrows  ?  Very  well !  Ezekiel  will 
reconstruct.  Isaiah  refuses  civilization ;  Ezekiel 
accepts,  but  transforms  it.  Nature  and  humanity 
blend  together  in  that  softened  howl  which  Ezekiel 
utters.  The  conception  of  duty  is  in  Job ;  in  JEs- 
chylus,  the  conception  of  right.  Ezekiel  intro- 
duces the  resultant  third  conception,  —  the  human 
race  ameliorated,  the  future  more  and  more  eman- 
cipated. It  is  man's  consolation  that  the  future 
is  to  be  a  sunrise  instead  of  a  sunset.  Time  pre- 
sents works  for  time  to  come;  work,  then,  and 
hope  !  Such  is  Ezekiel's  cry.  Ezekiel  is  in  Chal- 
daea,  and  from  Chaldaea  he  sees  distinctly  Judaea, 
just  as  from  oppression  one  may  see  liberty.  He 
declares  peace  as  others  declare  war.  He  proph- 
esies harmony,  goodness,  gentleness,  union,  the 
blending  of  races,  love.  Notwithstanding,  he  is 

4 


50  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

terrible.  He  is  the  fierce  benefactor,  the  univer- 
sal, beneficent  grumbler  at  the  human  race.  He 
scolds,  he  almost  gnashes  his  teeth,  and  people 
fear  and  hate  him.  The  men  about  are  thorns  to 
him.  "  I  live  among  the  briers,"  he  says.  He 
condemns  himself  to  be  a  symbol,  and  makes  of 
his  person,  become  hideous,  a  sign  of  human 
misery  and  popular  degradation.  He  is  a  kind 
of  voluntary  Job.  In  his  town,  in  his  house,  he 
causes  himself  to  be  bound  with  cords,  and  remains 
mute :  behold  the  slave !  In  the  public  place  he 
eats  filth :  behold  the  courtier  !  This  causes  Vol- 
taire's laughter  to  burst  forth,  and  our  sobs.  Ah, 
Ezekiel,  so  far  does  thy  devotion  go !  Thou  ren- 
derest  shame  visible  by  horror;  thou  compellest 
ignominy  to  avert  the  head  when  recognizing  her- 
self in  ordure ;  thou  showest  that  to  accept  a  man 
as  master  is  to  eat  filth ;  thou  causest  a  shudder  to 
the  sycophants  who  follow  the  prince,  by  putting 
into  thy  stomach  what  they  put  into  their  souls ; 
thou  preachest  deliverance  by  vomiting.  Accept 
our  veneration  !  This  man,  this  being,  this  figure, 
this  swine-prophet,  is  sublime.  And  the  transfigu- 
ration that  he  announces,  he  proves.  How  ?  By 
transfiguring  himself.  From  this  horrible  and  de- 
filed mouth  there  issues  splendid  poetry.  Never 
has  grander  language  been  spoken,  never  more 
extraordinary.  "  I  saw  visions  of  God.  A  whirl- 
wind came  out  of  the  North,  and  a  great  cloud, 
and  a  fire  infolding  itself.  I  saw  a  chariot,  and  a 
likeness  of  four  living  creatures.  Above  the  living 
creatures  and  the  chariot  was  a  space  like  a  ter- 
rible crystal.  The  wheels  of  the  chariot  were 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  5! 

made  of  eyes,  and  so  high  that  they  were  dread- 
ful. The  noise  of  the  wings  of  the  four  angels 
was  as  the  voice  of  the  Almighty,  and  when  they 
stood  they  let  down  their  wings.  And  I  saw  a 
likeness  which  was  as  fire,  and  which  put  forth  a 
hand.  And  a  voice  said,  '  The  kings  and  the 
judges  have  in  their  souls  gods  of  dung.  I  will 
take  the  stony  heart  out  of  their  flesh,  and  I  will 
give  them  an  heart  of  flesh.'  ...  I  came  to  them 
that  dwelt  by  the  river  of  Chebar,  and  I  remained 
there  astonished  among  them  seven  days."  And 
again :  "  There  was  a  plain  and  dry  bones,  and  I 
said,  '  Bones,  rise  up ;  '  and  when  I  beheld,  lo ! 
the  sinews  and  the  flesh  came  up  upon  them,  and 
the  skin  covered  them  above;  but  there  was  no 
breath  in  them.  And  I  cried,  '  Come  from  the 
four  winds,  O  breath,  and  breathe  upon  these  slain 
that  they  may  live  ! '  The  spirit  came.  The  breath 
came  into  them,  and  they  lived,  and  stood  up  upon 
their  feet,  an  exceeding  great  army.  Then  the 
voice  said,  '  Ye  shall  be  one  nation,  ye  shall  have 
no  king  or  judge  but  me ;  and  I  will  be  the  God 
who  has  one  people,  and  ye  shall  be  the  people 
who  have  one  God.'  "  Is  not  everything  there? 
Search  for  a  higher  formula,  you  will  not  find  it: 
a  free  man  under  a  sovereign  God.  This  vision- 
ary eater  of  filth  is  a  resuscitator.  Ezekiel  has 
offal  on  his  lips,  and  the  sun  in  his  eyes.  Among 
the  Jews  the  reading  of  Ezekiel  was  dreaded,  and 
was  not  permitted  before  the  age  of  thirty  years. 
The  rabbis,  disturbed,  put  a  seal  upon  this  poet. 
People  could  not  call  him  an  impostor:  his  pro- 
phetic fury  was  incontestable;  he  had  evidently 


$2  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

seen  what  he  related :  thence  his  authority.  His 
very  enigmas  made  him  an  oracle.  They  could 
not  tell  who  were  meant  by  those  women  sitting 
toward  the  North  weeping  for  Tammuz ; l  impos- 
sible to  divine  what  was  the  hashmal,  this  metal 
which  he  pictured  as  in  fusion  in  the  furnace  of 
the  dream.2  But  nothing  was  more  clear  than  his 
vision  of  Progress.  Ezekiel  saw  the  quadruple 
man,  —  man,  ox,  lion,  and  eagle ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  master  of  thought,  the  master  of  the  field,  the 
master  of  the  desert,  the  master  of  the  air.  No- 
thing is  forgotten ;  it  is  the  entire  future,  from 
Aristotle  to  Christopher  Columbus,  from  Triptole- 
mus  to  Montgolfier.  Later  on,  the  Gospel  also 
will  become  quadruple  in  the  four  evangelists, 
making  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John  subser- 
vient to  man,  the  ox,  the  lion,  and  the  eagle,  and, 
remarkable  fact,  to  symbolize  progress  it  will  take 
the  four  faces  of  Ezekiel.  Furthermore,  Ezekiel, 
like  Christ,  calls  himself  the  "  Son  of  Man." 
Jesus  often  in  his  parables  invokes  and  cites  Eze- 
kiel ;  and  this  kind  of  first  Messiah  makes  prece- 
dents for  the  second.  There  are  in  Ezekiel  three 
constructions,  —  man,  in  whom  he  places  progress ; 
the  temple,  where  he  puts  a  light  that  he  calls 
"glory ;  "  the  city,  where  he  places  God.  He  cries 

1  Ezekiel  viii.    14.     This  "  enigma  "  was  not  such  to  Milton, 
who  sings  of  Zion's  daughters, — 

"  Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 
Ezekiel  saw,  when,  by  the  vision  led, 
His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah." 

Paradise  Lost,  i.  446  seq. 

2  The  mysterious  word  hashmal  is  rendered  by  "  amber  "  in  our 
common  version  (Ezekiel  i.  4).  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  53 

to  the  temple,  — "  No  priests  here,  neither  they, 
nor  their  kings,  nor  the  carcases  of  their  kings  " 
(xliii.  7).1  One  cannot  help  thinking  that  this 
Ezekiel,  a  species  of  Biblical  demagogue,  would 
help  '93  in  the  terrible  sweeping  of  St.  Denis.  As 
for  the  city  built  by  him,  he  mutters  above  it  this 
mysterious  name,  Jehovah  Schammah,  which  sig- 
nifies "  the  Eternal  is  there."  Then,  standing 
silent  in  the  darkness,  he  shows  men,  on  the  far 
horizon,  an  ever-widening  space  of  azure  sky. 

6.  Another,  Lucretius,  is  that  vast,  obscure  thing, 
AIL  Jupiter  is  in  Homer;  Jehovah  is  in  Job;  in 
Lucretius,  Pan  appears.  Such  is  Pan's  greatness, 
that  he  has  under  him  Destiny,  which  is  above  Ju- 
piter. Lucretius  has  travelled  and  he  has  mused, 
and  musing  is  another  form  of  travel.  He  has 
been  at  Athens;  he  has  been  in  the  haunts  of 
philosophers ;  he  has  studied  Greece  and  divined 
India.  Democritus  has  set  him  to  thinking  about 
the  molecule,  and  Anaximander  about  space.  His 
dreams  have  become  doctrine.  Nothing  is  known 
of  the  incidents  of  his  life.  Like  Pythagoras,  he 
has  frequented  the  two  mysterious  schools  of  the 
Euphrates,  Neharda  and  Pombeditha,  and  he  may 
have  met  there  the  Jewish  doctors.  He  has  deci- 
phered the  papyri  of  Sepphoris,  which  in  his  time 
was  not  yet  transformed  into  Diocaesarea ;  he  has 
lived  with  the  pearl-fishers  of  the  Isle  of  Tylos. 
We  find  in  the  Apocrypha  traces  of  a  strange  an- 
cient itinerary,  recommended,  according  to  some, 

1  The  curious  reader  will  discover  that  the  citations  from  Eze- 
kiel are  either  paraphrased  or  garbled,  or  both.  Pedantic  exact- 
itude is  not  one  of  Hugo's  faults.  —  TR. 


54  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

to  philosophers  by  Empedocles,  the  magician  of 
Agrigentum,  and,  according  to  others,  to  the 
rabbis  by  the  high-priest  Eleazer,  who  corre- 
sponded with  Ptolemy  Philadelphus.  This  itin- 
erary would  have  served  at  a  later  time  as  a 
model  for  the  journeyings  of  the  Apostles.  The 
traveller  who  followed  this  itinerary  traversed  the 
five  satrapies  of  the  country  of  the  Philistines ; 
visited  the  people  who  charm  serpents  and  suck 
poisonous  sores,  —  the  Psylli ;  drank  of  the  torrent 
Bosor,  which  marks  the  frontier  of  Arabia  Deserta ; 
then  touched  and  handled  the  bronze  collar  of 
Andromeda,  still  sealed  to  the  rock  of  Joppa; 
Baalbec  in  Ccele-Syria;  Apamea  on  the  Orontes, 
where  Nicanor  fed  his  elephants;  the  harbor  of 
Ezion-geber,  where  rode  the  vessels  of  Ophir, 
laden  with  gold ;  Segher,  which  produced  white 
incense,  preferred  to  that  of  Hadramauth ;  the 
two  Syrtes ;  Smaragdus,  the  mountain  of  emer- 
ald; the  Nasamones,  who  pillaged  the  ship- 
wrecked; the  black  nation,  Agyzimba;  Adribe, 
the  city  of  crocodiles  ;  Cynopolis,  the  city  of 
dogs ;  the  wonderful  cities  of  Comagena,  Claudia, 
and  Barsalium;  perhaps  even  Tadmor,  the  city 
of  Solomon :  such  were  the  stages  of  this  almost 
fabulous  pilgrimage  of  the  thinkers.  Did  Lucre- 
tius make  this  pilgrimage?  One  cannot  tell.  His 
numerous  travels  are  beyond  doubt.  He  has  seen 
so  many  men  that  at  the  last  to  his  eye  they  all 
seem  indistinguishably  blended,  and  have  become 
to  him  a  spectral  multitude.  He  is  arrived  at 
that  excess  of  simplification  of  the  universe 
which  almost  causes  it  to  disappear.  He  has 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  55 

sounded  until  he  feels  the  plummet  float.  He 
has  questioned  the  vague  spectres  of  Byblos ; 
he  has  conversed  with  the  tree-trunk  cut  from 
Cithaeron,  which  represents  Juno  Thespia.  Per- 
haps he  has  spoken  in  the  reeds  to  Cannes,  the 
man-fish  of  Chaldaea,  who  had  two  heads,  —  at  the 
top,  the  head  of  a  man,  below,  the  head  of  a  hydra, 
—  and  who,  drinking  up  chaos  by  his  lower  gullet, 
revomited  it  on  the  earth  through  his  upper  mouth 
in  the  form  of  dreadful  knowledge.  Isaiah  stands 
next  to  the  archangels,  Lucretius  to  the  spectres. 
Lucretius  twists  the  ancient  veil  of  Isis,  steeped  in 
the  waters  of  darkness,  and  wrings  from  it  some- 
times in  torrents,  sometimes  drop  by  drop,  a  som- 
bre poesy.  The  boundless  is  in  Lucretius.  At 
times  there  passes  a  powerful  spondaic  verse, 
almost  monstrous,  and  full  of  shadow:  — 

"  Circum  se  froliis  ac  frondibus  involventes." 

Here  and  there  a  vast  image  of  pairing  is  dimly 
outlined  in  the  forest :  — 

"  Tune  Venus  in  sylvis  jungebat  corpora  amantum  ;  " 

and  the  forest  is  Nature.  These  verses  are  impos- 
sible with  Virgil.  Lucretius  turns  his  back  on  hu- 
manity, and  fixes  his  gaze  upon  the  enigma.  His 
searching  spirit  is  placed  between  that  reality,  the 
atom,  and  that  impossibility,  the  vacuum  :  by  turns 
attracted  by  these  two  precipices,  he  is  religious 
when  he  contemplates  the  atom,  sceptical  when  he 
perceives  the  void  ;  thence  his  two  aspects,  equally 
profound,  of  denial  and  of  affirmation.  One  day 
this  traveller  commits  suicide.  This  is  his  last  de- 
parture. He  puts  himself  en  route  for  Death.  He 


56  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

wishes  to  see  for  himself.  He  has  embarked  suc- 
cessively upon  every  sort  of  vessel,  —  on  the  galley 
of  Trevirium  for  Sanastrea  in  Macedonia;  on  the 
trireme  of  Carystos  for  Metapontum1  in  Greece; 
on  the  Cyllenian  skiff  for  the  Island  of  Samothrace ; 
on  the  sandale  of  Samothrace  for  Naxos,  the  home 
of  Bacchus ;  on  the  ceroscaph  of  Naxos  for  Syria ; 
on  the  Syrian  pinnace  for  Egypt;  and  on  the  ship 
of  the  Red  Sea  for  India.  It  remains  for  him  to 
make  one  voyage :  he  is  curious  about  the  dark 
country;  he  takes  passage  on  the  coffin,  and  slip- 
ping the  hawser  himself,  he  pushes  off  into  the 
shadow  the  obscure  barque  that  is  tossed  by  an 
unknown  sea. 

7.  Another,  Juvenal,  has  everything  in  which 
Lucretius  fails,  —  passion,  emotion,  fever,  tragic 
flame,  passion  for  honesty,  the  avenging  sneer, 
personality,  humanity.  He  dwells  at  a  certain 
given  point  in  creation,  and  he  contents  himself 
with  it,  finding  there  what  may  nourish  and  swell 
his  heart  with  justice  and  anger.  Lucretius  is  the 
universe,  Juvenal  the  locality.  And  what  a  local- 
ity !  Rome.  Between  the  two  they  are  the  double 
voice  which  speaks  to  world  and  town  —  urbi  et 
orbi.  As  Juvenal  hovers  above  the  Roman  Empire, 
one  hears  the  terrific  flapping  of  the  lammergeyer's 
wings  above  a  nest  of  reptiles.  He  pounces  upon 
this  swarm  and  takes  them,  one  after  the  other,  in 
his  terrible  beak,  —  from  the  adder  who  is  emperor 
and  calls  himself  Nero,  to  the  earthworm  who  is 
a  bad  poet  and  calls  himself  Codrus.  Isaiah  and 

1  Metapontum  was  a  Greek  colony  in  Lucania.     Sanastrea  the 
translator  is  unable  to  find.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  57 

Juvenal  has  each  his  harlot;  but  there  is  one 
thing  more  ominous  than  the  shadow  of  Babel,  — 
it  is  the  creaking  of  the  bed  of  the  Caesars ;  and 
Babylon  is  less  formidable  than  Messalina.  Juve- 
nal is  the  ancient  free  spirit  of  the  dead  republics ; 
in  him  there  is  a  Rome  of  that  metal  in  which 
Athens  and  Sparta  were  cast.  Thence  in  his  poetry 
something  of  Aristophanes  and  something  of  Ly- 
curgus.  Beware  of  him ;  he  is  severe  !  Not  a  cord 
is  wanting  to  his  lyre,  nor  to  the  lash  he  uses.  He 
is  lofty,  rigid,  austere,  glowing,  violent,  grave,  inex- 
haustible in  imagery,  harshly  gracious,  too,  when 
he  chooses.  His  cynicism  is  the  indignation  of 
modesty.  His  grace,  thoroughly  independent  and 
a  true  figure  of  liberty,  has  claws ;  it  appears  all  at 
once,  enlivening  by  certain  supple  and  spirited  un- 
dulations the  angular  majesty  of  his  hexameter. 
It  is  as  if  you  saw  the  Cat  of  Corinth  prowling  upon 
the  pediment  of  the  Parthenon.  There  is  some- 
thing of  the  epic  in  this  satire ;  Juvenal  holds  in 
his  hand  the  golden  sceptre  with  which  Ulysses 
beats  Thersites.  "  Bombast,  declamation,  exagger- 
ation, hyperbole,"  cry  the  slaughtered  deformities ; 
and  these  cries,  stupidly  repeated  by  rhetoricians, 
are  a  sound  of  glory.  "  To  commit  these  things 
or  to  relate  them,  the  crime  is  equal,"  say  Tille- 
mont,  Marc  Muret,  Garasse,  etc.,  —  fools  who,  like 
Muret,  are  sometimes  knaves.  Juvenal's  invective 
has  been  blazing  for  two  thousand  years,  —  a  fearful 
flame  of  poetry,  which  burns  Rome  in  the  presence 
of  the  centuries.  The  fire  still  flashes  upon  that 
radiant  hearth,  and,  far  from  diminishing  with 
time,  increases  under  its  mournful  cloud  of  smoke. 


58  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

From  it  proceed  rays  in  behalf  of  liberty,  probity, 
heroism ;  and  it  may  be  said  that  Juvenal  sends 
even  into  our  civilization  spirits  born  of  his  light. 
What  is  Regnier?  what  D'Aubigne?  what  Cor- 
neille?  Scintillations  from  Juvenal. 

8.  Another,  Tacitus,  is  the  historian.  Liberty 
is  incarnate  in  him,  as  in  Juvenal,  and  ascends,  dead, 
to  the  seat  of  judgment,  having  for  a  toga  her 
winding-sheet,  and  summons  tyrants  to  her  bar. 
Juvenal,  we  have  just  said,  is  the  soul  of  a  nation 
embodied  in  a  man ;  the  same  is  also  true  of 
Tacitus.  By  the  side  of  the  poet  who  condemns, 
stands  the  historian  who  punishes.  Tacitus,  seated 
on  the  curule  chair  of  genius,  summons  and  seizes 
in  flagrante  delicto  those  criminals,  the  Caesars. 
The  Roman  Empire  is  a  long  crime.  This  crime 
is  begun  by  four  demons,  —  Tiberius,  Caligula, 
Claudius,  Nero.  Tiberius,  the  imperial  spy;  the 
eye  which  watches  the  world;  the  first  dictator 
who  dared  to  pervert  to  his  personal  service  the 
law  of  majesty  made  for  the  Roman  people  ;  know- 
ing Greek,  intellectual,  sagacious,  sarcastic,  elo- 
quent, terrible ;  loved  by  informers ;  the  murderer 
of  citizens,  of  knights,  of  the  senate,  of  his  wife,  of 
his  family ;  having  rather  the  air  of  stabbing  nations 
than  of  massacring  them ;  humble  before  the  Bar- 
barians ;  a  traitor  with  Archelaus,  a  coward  with 
Artabanus ;  having  two  thrones,  —  Rome  for  his 
ferocity,  Capreae  for  his  baseness;  an  inventor  of 
vices  and  of  names  for  these  vices ;  an  old  man  with  a 
seraglio  of  young  girls ;  gaunt,  bald,  crooked,  bandy- 
legged, fetid,  eaten  up  with  leprosy,  covered  with 
suppurations,  masked  with  plasters,  crowned  with 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  59 

laurels;  having  ulcers  like  Job,  and  the  sceptre 
besides;  surrounded  by  an  oppressive  silence; 
seeking  a  successor,  scenting  out  Caligula,  and 
rinding  him  good  :  a  viper  choosing  a  tiger.  Calig 
ula,  the  man  who  has  known  fear,  the  slave  be- 
come master,  trembling  under  Tiberius,  terrible 
after  Tiberius,  vomiting  his  fright  of  yesterday  in 
atrocity.  This  mad  fool  has  not  his  equal.  An 
executioner  makes  a  mistake,  and  kills,  instead  of 
the  condemned  one,  an  innocent  man;  Caligula 
smiles  and  says,  "  The  condemned  had  not  more 
deserved  it."  He  has  a  woman  eaten  alive  by  dogs, 
to  enjoy  the  sight.  He  lies  publicly  upon  his  three 
sisters,  all  stark  naked.  One  of  them  dies,  —  Dru- 
silla;  he  says,  "  Behead  those  who  do  not  bewail 
her,  for  she  is  my  sister ;  and  crucify  those  who 
bewail  her,  for  she  is  a  goddess."  He  makes  his 
horse  a  pontiff,  as,  later  on,  Nero  will  make  his 
monkey  a  god.  He  offers  to  the  universe  the 
wretched  spectacle  of  the  annihilation  of  intellect 
by  supreme  power.  A  prostitute,  a  sharper,  a 
robber,  breaking  the  busts  of  Homer  and  Virgil, 
his  head  dressed  as  Apollo  with  rays,  and  his  feet 
shod  with  wings  like  Mercury,  frenetically  master 
of  the  world,  desiring  incest  with  his  mother,  wish- 
ing a  plague  to  his  empire,  famine  to  his  people, 
rout  to  his  army,  his  own  resemblance  to  the  gods, 
and  one  sole  head  to  the  human  race,  that  he  might 
cut  it  off,  —  such  is  Caius  Caligula.  He  forces  the 
son  to  assist  at  the  torment  of  the  father,  and  the 
husband  at  the  violation  of  the  wife,  and  to  laugh. 
Claudius  is  a  mere  sketch  of  a  ruler,  a  piece  of  a 
man  made  a  tyrant,  a  crowned  noodle.  He  hides 


60  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

himself;  they  discover  him,  they  drag  him  from  his 
hole,  and  they  throw  him,  terrified,  upon  the  throne. 
Emperor,  he  still  trembles,  having  the  crown,  but  not 
sure  that  he  has  his  head.  He  feels  for  his  head  at 
times,  as  if  he  searched  for  it.  Then  he  gets  more 
confident,  and  decrees  three  new  letters  to  be  added 
to  the  alphabet.  He  is  a  learned  man,  this  idiot. 
They  strangle  a  senator ;  he  says,  "  I  did  not  order 
it;  but  since  it  is  done,  it  is  well."  His  wife  prosti- 
tutes herself  before  him.  He  looks  at  her,  and  says, 
"  Who  is  this  woman  ?  "  He  scarcely  exists ;  he  is 
a  shadow:  but  this  shadow  crushes  the  world.  At 
length  the  hour  for  his  departure  arrives :  his  wife 
poisons  him;  his  doctor  finishes  him.  He  says,  "  I 
am  saved,"  and  dies.  After  his  death  they  come  to 
see  his  corpse ;  during  his  life  they  had  seen  his 
ghost.  Nero  is  the  most  formidable  figure  of  ennui 
that  has  ever  appeared  among  men.  The  yawning 
monster  that  the  ancients  called  Livor  and  the  mod- 
erns call  Spleen,  gives  us  this  riddle  to  guess,  — 
Nero.  Nero  seeks  simply  a  distraction.  Poet,  come- 
dian, singer,  coachman,  exhausting  ferocity  to  find 
voluptuousness,  trying  a  change  of  sex,  the  husband 
of  the  eunuch  Sporus  and  bride  of  the  slave  Pythag- 
oras, and  promenading  the  streets  of  Rome  between 
his  husband  and  his  wife.  He  has  two  pleasures, 
—  one,  to  see  the  people  clutching  gold-pieces,  dia- 
monds, and  pearls ;  and  the  other,  to  see  the  lions 
clutch  the  people.  An  incendiary  for  curiosity's 
sake,  and  a  matricide  for  want  of  employment.  It 
is  to  these  four  that  Tacitus  dedicates  his  first  gib- 
bets. Their  reigns  he  hangs  about  their  necks  like 
a  collar.  His  book  of  '  Caligula '  is  lost.  Nothing 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  6 1 

is  easier  to  comprehend  than  the  loss  and  oblitera- 
tion of  books  of  this  sort.  To  read  them  was  a 
crime.  A  man  having  been  caught  reading  the 
history  of  Caligula  by  Suetonius,  Commodus  had 
him  thrown  to  the  wild  beasts.  "  Feris  objici  jus- 
sit,"  says  Lampridius.  The  horror  of  those  days 
is  awful.  Manners,  below  and  above  stairs,  are 
ferocious.  You  may  judge  of  the  cruelty  of  the 
Romans  by  the  atrocity  of  the  Gauls.  An  insur- 
rection breaks  out  in  Gaul.  The  peasants  place  the 
Roman  ladies,  naked  and  still  alive,  on  harrows 
whose  points  enter  here  and  there  into  the  body ; 
then  they  cut  off  their  breasts  and  sew  them  in 
their  mouths,  that  they  may  have  the  appearance 
of  eating  them.  Vix  vindicta  est,  "  this  is  scarcely 
retaliation,"  says  the  Roman  general  Turpilianus. 
These  Roman  ladies  had  the  practice,  while  chat- 
ting with  their  lovers,  of  sticking  gold  pins  in 
the  breasts  of  the  Persian  or  Gallic  slaves  who 
dressed  their  hair.  Such  is  the  human  specta- 
cle at  which  Tacitus  is  present;  the  sight  of  it 
renders  him  terrible.  He  states  the  facts,  and 
leaves  you  to  draw  your  own  conclusions.  It  is 
only  in  Rome  that  a  Potiphar  mother  of  Joseph 
is  to  be  met.1  When  Agrippina,  reduced  to  her 
last  resource,  seeing  her  grave  in  the  eyes  of  her 
son,  offers  him  her  bed,  when  her  lips  seek  those 
of  Nero,  Tacitus  is  there,  following  her  with  his 
eyes :  "  Lasciva  oscula  et  prsenuntias  flagitii  blandi- 
tias ;  "  and  he  denounces  to  the  world  this  effort  of 
a  monstrous  and  trembling  mother  to  make  matri- 

1  The  original  reads :  "  La  Putiphar  mere  du  Joseph,  c'est  ce 
qu'on  ne  rencontre  que  dans  Rome."  —  TR. 


62  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

cide  miscarry  by  means  of  incest.  Whatever  Jus- 
tus Lipsius,  who  bequeathed  his  pen  to  the  Holy 
Virgin,  may  have  said  about  it,  Domitian  exiled 
Tacitus,  and  he  did  well.  Men  like  Tacitus  are 
unwholesome  for  authority.  Tacitus  applies  his 
style  to  the  shoulder  of  an  emperor,  and  the  brand 
remains.  Tacitus  always  makes  his  thrust  at  the 
required  spot,  and  leaves  a  deep  scar.  Juvenal, 
all-powerful  poet,  deals  about  him,  scatters,  makes 
a  show,  falls  and  rebounds,  strikes  right  and  left  a 
hundred  blows  at  a  time,  on  laws,  manners,  corrupt 
magistrates,  on  bad  verses,  on  libertines  and  the 
idle,  on  Caesar,  on  the  people,  everywhere ;  he  is 
lavish,  like  hail;  his  strokes  scatter,  like  those  of 
the  scourge.  Tacitus  has  the  incisiveness  of  red- 
hot  iron. 

9.  Another,  John,  is  the  virginal  old  man.  All 
the  ardent  juices  of  man  seem  subtilized  within 
him,  filling  his  brain  with  visionary  wraiths.  One 
does  not  escape  love.  Love,  unappeased  and  dis- 
contented, changes  itself  at  the  end  of  life  into  an 
outflow  of  gloomy  fancies.  The  woman  wants 
man;  otherwise  man,  instead  of  human  poetry, 
will  have  a  phantom  poetry.  Some  beings,  how- 
ever, resist  the  universal  generative  tendency,  and 
then  they  are  in  that  peculiar  state  in  which  men 
are  subject  to  monstrous  inspirations.  The  Apoc- 
alypse is  the  almost  insane  masterpiece  of  this 
dreadful  chastity.  John,  while  young,  was  gentle 
and  shy.  Having  loved  Jesus,  he  could  love  noth- 
ing else.  There  is  a  profound  resemblance  be- 
tween the  Song  of  Songs  and  the  Apocalypse ; 
they  are  both  explosions  of  pent-up  virginity. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  63 

The  heart,  mighty  volcano,  bursts  into  eruption; 
there  proceeds  from  it  this  dove,  the  Song  of 
Songs,  or  this  dragon,  the  Apocalypse.  These 
two  poems  are  the  two  poles  of  ecstasy,  —  volup- 
tuousness and  horror;  the  two  extreme  limits  of 
the  soul  are  attained.  In  the  first  poem  ecstasy 
exhausts  love,  in  the  second,  terror;  and  this 
ecstasy  inspires  in  mankind,  henceforth  forever 
disquieted,  the  dread  of  the  eternal  precipice. 
Another  resemblance,  not  less  worthy  of  attention, 
there  is  between  John  and  Daniel.  The  nearly 
invisible  thread  of  affinity  is  carefully  followed  by 
the  eye  of  those  who  see  in  the  prophetic  spirit  a 
human  and  normal  phenomenon,  and  who,  far 
from  disdaining  the  question  of  miracles,  general- 
ize it,  and  calmly  connect  it  with  permanent  laws. 
Religions  lose,  and  science  gains  by  the  process. 
It  has  not  been  sufficiently  remarked  that  the 
seventh  chapter  of  Daniel  contains  the  germ  of 
the  Apocalypse.  Empires  are  there  represented 
as  beasts.  Legend  has  therefore  associated  the 
two  poets,  making  the  one  pass  through  the  lions' 
den,  and  the  other  through  the  caldron  of  boiling 
oil.  Independently  of  the  legend,  the  life  of  John 
is  noble,  —  an  exemplary  life,  subject  to  marvellous 
expansions,  passing  from  Golgotha  to  Patmos,  and 
from  the  execution  of  the  Messiah  to  the  exile  of 
the  prophet.  John,  after  having  been  present  at 
the  sufferings  of  Christ,  ends  by  suffering  on  his 
own  account.  The  suffering  seen  makes  him  an 
apostle,  the  suffering  endured  makes  him  a  sage ; 
from  the  growth  of  the  trial  results  the  growth  of  the 
spirit.  Bishop,  he  writes  the  Gospel;  proscribed, 


64  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

he  composes  the  Apocalypse,  —  a  tragic  work, 
written  under  the  dictation  of  an  eagle,  the  poet 
having  above  his  head  we  know  not  what  mournful 
flapping  of  wings.  The  whole  Bible  is  between 
two  dreamers,  Moses  and  John.  This  poem  of 
poems  emerges  from  chaos  in  Genesis,  and  passes 
out  of  view  amid  the  thunders  of  the  Apocalypse. 
John  was  one  of  the  great  wanderers  of  the  tongue 
of  fire.  During  the  Last  Supper  his  head  was  on 
the  breast  of  Jesus,  and  he  could  say,  "  Mine  ear 
has  heard  the  beating  of  God's  heart."  He  went 
about  to  relate  it  to  men.  He  spoke  a  barbarous 
Greek,  mingled  with  Hebrew  expressions  and 
Syrian  words, —  a  language  of  a  wild,  harsh  charm. 
He  went  to  Ephesus,  he  went  to  Media,  he  went 
among  the  Parthians.  He  dared  to  enter  Ctesi- 
phon,  a  town  of  the  Parthians,  built  as  a  coun- 
terpoise to  Babylon.  He  faced  the  living  idol, 
Cobaris,  king,  god,  and  man,  forever  immovable 
on  his  pierced  block  of  nephritic  jade,  which  serves 
him  as  throne  and  latrine.  He  evangelized  Per- 
sia, which  the  Scriptures  call  Paras.  When  he 
appeared  at  the  Council  of  Jerusalem,  he  was 
regarded  as  a  pillar  of  the  Church.  He  looked 
with  stupefaction  at  Cerinthus  and  Ebion,  who 
said  that  Jesus  was  but  a  man.  When  they  ques- 
tioned him  upon  the  mystery,  he  answered,  "  Love 
one  another."  He  died  at  the  age  of  ninety-four 
years,  under  Trajan.  According  to  tradition,  he 
is  not  dead ;  he  is  spared,  and  John  is  ever  living 
at  Patmos,  as  Barbarossa  at  Kaiserslautern.1  Cav- 
erns there  are  in  which  these  mysterious  mortals 

1  On  Kyffhauser,  the  German  legends  say. — TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  65 

are  waiting.  John  as  an  historian  has  his  equals, 
—  Matthew,  Luke,  Mark;  as  a  visionary  he  is 
alone.  There  is  no  dream  that  approaches  his, 
such  a  reach  it  has  into  the  infinite.  His  meta- 
phors issue  from  eternity,  perturbed;  his  poetry 
has  a  profound  smile  of  madness.  A  light  reflected 
from  the  Most  High  is  in  the  eye  of  this  man ;  it 
is  the  sublime  in  full  aberration.  Men  do  not  un- 
derstand it  —  scorn  it,  and  laugh.  "  My  dear 
Thiriot,"  says  Voltaire,  "the  Apocalypse  is  a  piece 
of  ordure."  Religions,  being  in  want  of  this  book, 
have  taken  to  worshipping  it;  but  it  had  to  be 
placed  upon  the  altar  in  order  to  save  it  from  the 
ditch.  What  does  it  matter?  John  is  a  spirit.  It 
is  in  John  of  Patmos,  above  all  others,  that  the 
communication  between  certain  men  of  genius  and 
the  abyss  is  apparent.  In  all  other  poets  we  guess 
this  communication ;  in  John  we  see  it,  at  moments 
we  touch  it,  and  seem  to  lay  a  shuddering  hand 
upon  that  sombre  portal.  It  is  the  door  that  leads 
toward  God.  In  reading  the  poem  of  Patmos, 
some  one  seems  to  push  you  from  behind ;  the 
dread  entrance,  vaguely  outlined,  arouses  mingled 
terror  and  longing.  Were  this  all  of  John,  he 
would  still  be  colossal. 

10.  Another,  Paul,  a  saint  for  the  Church,  a 
great  man  for  humanity,  represents  that  miracle,  at 
once  divine  and  human,  conversion.  It  is  he  to 
whom  the  future  has  appeared.  It  leaves  him 
haggard;  and  nothing  can  be  more  superb  than 
this  face,  forever  wondering,  of  the  man  con- 
quered by  the  light.  Paul,  born  a  Pharisee,  had 
been  a  weaver  of  camel's-hair  for  tents,  and  servant 

S 


66  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

of  one  of  the  judges  of  Jesus  Christ,  Gamaliel; 
then  the  Scribes,  perceiving  his  fierce  spirit,  had 
educated  him.  He  was  a  man  of  the  past,  he 
had  guarded  the  clothes  of  the  stone-throwers ; 
he  aspired,  having  studied  with  the  priests,  to  be- 
come an  executioner ;  he  was  on  the  road  for  this. 
All  at  once  a  wave  of  light  emanates  from  the 
darkness  and  throws  him  down  from  his  horse; 
and  henceforth  there  will  be  in  the  history  of  the 
human  race  that  wonderful  thing,  —  the  road  to 
Damascus.  That  day  of  the  metamorphosis  of 
Saint  Paul  is  a  great  day,  —  keep  the  date ;  it  cor- 
responds to  the  25th  of  January  in  our  Gregorian 
calendar.  The  road  to  Damascus  is  essential  to 
the  march  of  Progress.  To  fall  into  the  truth  and 
to  rise  a  just  man,  —  a  transfiguring  fall,  —  that  is 
sublime.  It  is  the  history  of  Saint  Paul ;  from  his 
day  it  will  be  the  history  of  humanity.  The  flash 
of  light  is  something  beyond  the  flash  of  lightning. 
Progress  will  be  carried  forward  by  a  series  of 
dazzling  visions.  As  for  Saint  Paul,  who  has  been 
thrown  down  by  the  force  of  new  conviction,  this 
harsh  stroke  from  on  high  reveals  to  him  his 
genius.  Once  more  upon  his  feet,  he  goes  for- 
ward ;  he  will  not  pause  again.  "  Forward  !  "  is 
his  cry.  He  is  a  cosmopolite.  He  loves  the  out- 
siders, whom  Paganism  calls  Barbarians,  and  Chris- 
tianity calls  Gentiles ;  he  devotes  himself  to  them. 
He  is  the  apostle  of  the  outer  world.  He  writes 
to  the  nations  epistles  in  behalf  of  God.  Listen 
to  him  speaking  to  the  Galatians :  "  O  foolish  Ga- 
latians !  how  can  ye  go  back  to  the  yokes  to  which 
ye  were  tied  ?  There  are  no  longer  either  Jews, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  6? 

or  Greeks,  or  slaves.  Do  not  perform  your  grand 
ceremonies  ordained  by  your  laws.  I  declare  unto 
you  that  all  that  is  nothing.  Love  one  another. 
It  is  all-important  that  man  become  a  new  crea- 
ture. Ye  are  called  to  liberty."  On  Mars  Hill  at 
Athens  there  were  steps  hewn  in  rock,  which  may 
be  seen  to  this  day.  Upon  these  steps  sat  the 
great  judges  before  whom  Orestes  had  appeared. 
There  Socrates  had  been  judged.  Paul  went  there ; 
and  there,  at  night  (the  Areopagus  sat  only  at 
night),  he  said  to  those  austere  men,  "  I  come 
to  declare  unto  you  the  unknown  God."  The 
epistles  of  Paul  to  the  Gentiles  are  simple  and 
profound,  with  the  subtlety  so  marked  in  its  in- 
fluence over  savages.  There  are  in  these  messages 
gleams  of  hallucination ;  Paul  speaks  of  the  celes- 
tial beings  as  if  he  distinctly  saw  them.  Divided, 
like  John,  between  life  and  eternity,  it  seems  as 
though  he  had  a  part  of  his  thought  on  the  earth, 
and  a  part  in  the  Unknown;  and  it  would  seem, 
at  moments,  that  one  of  his  verses  answers  to  an- 
other from  beyond  the  dark  wall  of  the  tomb.  This 
half-possession  of  death  gives  him  a  personal  cer- 
tainty often  wholly  apart  from  dogma,  and  stamps 
his  individual  convictions  with  an  emphasis  which 
makes  him  almost  heretical.  His  humility,  resting 
upon  the  mystery,  is  lofty.  Peter  says :  "  The 
words  of  Paul  may  be  taken  in  a  bad  sense." 
Hilarius  Diaconus  and  the  Luciferians  ascribe  their 
schism  to  the  epistles  of  Paul.  Paul  is  at  heart 
so  anti-monarchical  that  King  James  I.,  very  much 
encouraged  by  the  orthodox  University  of  Oxford, 
caused  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans  to  be  burned  by 


68  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

the  hand  of  the  common  hangman.  It  is  true  it 
was  accompanied  with  a  commentary  by  David 
Pareus.  Many  of  Paul's  works  are  rejected  by  the 
Church:  they  are  the  finest;  and  among  them  his 
Epistle  to  the  Laodiceans,  and  above  all  his  Apoc- 
alypse, cancelled  by  the  Council  of  Rome  under 
Gelasius.  It  would  be  curious  to  compare  it  with 
the  Apocalypse  of  John.  Over  the  opening  that 
Paul  had  made  to  heaven  the  Church  wrote,  "  No 
thoroughfare  !  "  He  is  a  saint  none  the  less ;  that 
is  his  official  consolation.  Paul  has  the  restless- 
ness of  the  thinker;  text  and  formulary  are  little 
for  him;  the  letter  does  not  suffice:  the  letter  is 
mere  body.  Like  all  men  of  progress,  he  speaks 
with  reserve  of  the  written  law;  he  prefers  grace 
to  the  law,  just  as  we  prefer  to  it  justice.  What 
is  grace  ?  It  is  the  inspiration  from  on  high  ;  it  is 
the  breath,  flat  ubi  milt ;  it  is  liberty.  Grace  is 
the  spirit  of  the  law.  This  discovery  of  the  spirit 
of  the  law  belongs  to  Saint  Paul ;  and  what  he  calls 
"  grace  "  from  a  heavenly  point  of  view,  we,  from  an 
earthly  point  of  view,  call  "  right."  Such  is  Paul. 
The  enlargement  of  a  mind  by  the  in-breaking  of 
light,  the  beauty  of  the  seizure  of  a  soul  by  the 
truth,  shine  forth  in  his  person.  Herein,  we  insist, 
lies  the  virtue  of  the  journey  to  Damascus.  Who- 
ever, henceforward,  shall  desire  such  growth  as 
this,  must  follow  the  pointing  finger  of  Saint  Paul. 
All  those  to  whom  justice  shall  reveal  itself,  every 
blindness  desirous  of  the  day,  all  the  cataracts 
looking  to  be  healed,  all  searchers  after  conviction, 
all  the  great  adventurers  after  virtue,  all  servants 
of  the  good  in  quest  of  the  true,  must  follow  this 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  69 

road.  The  light  that  they  find  there  shall  change 
nature,  for  the  light  is  always  relative  to  darkness ; 
it  shall  increase  in  intensity ;  after  having  been  rev- 
elation, it  shall  be  rationalism :  but  it  shall  ever  be 
the  light.  Voltaire,  like  Saint  Paul,  is  on  the  road  to 
Damascus.  The  road  to  Damascus  shall  be  forever 
the  route  of  great  minds.  It  shall  also  be  the  route 
of  nations.  For  nations,  those  vast  individualisms, 
have,  like  each  of  us,  their  crisis  and  their  hour ; 
Paul,  after  his  august  fall,  arose  again,  armed  against 
ancient  errors  with  the  flashing  blade  of  Christian- 
ity; and  two  thousand  years  after,  France  also, 
struck  to  earth  by  the  light,  arouses  herself,  hold- 
ing in  hand  the  flaming  sword  of  Revolution. 

II.  Another,  Dante,  has  constructed  within  his 
own  mind  the  bottomless  pit.  He  has  made  the 
epic  of  the  spectres.  He  rends  the  earth ;  in  the 
terrible  hole  he  has  made,  he  puts  Satan.  Then 
he  pushes  the  world  through  Purgatory  up  to 
Heaven.  Where  all  else  ends,  Dante  begins.  Dante 
is  beyond  man ;  beyond,  not  without,  —  a  singular 
proposition,  which,  however,  has  nothing  contra- 
dictory in  it,  the  soul  being  a  prolongation  of  man 
into  the  indefinite.  Dante  twists  all  light  and  all 
shadow  into  a  monstrous  spiral ;  it  descends,  then 
it  ascends.  Unexampled  architecture !  At  the 
threshold  is  the  sacred  mist;  across  the  entrance 
is  stretched  the  corpse  of  Hope ;  all  that  you  per- 
ceive beyond  is  night.  Somewhere  in  the  darkness 
is  heard  the  sobbing  of  the  infinite  anguish.  You 
lean  over  this  gulf-poem  —  is  it  a  crater?  You 
hear  detonations ;  the  verse  shoots  out,  narrow  and 
livid,  as  from  the  sulphurous  fissures  of  a  volcanic 


70  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

region ;  what  seems  vapor  takes  on  a  spectral  form, 
—  the  ghastly  shape  speaks ;  and  then  you  know 
that  the  volcano  you  have  glimpsed,  is  Hell.  This 
is  no  longer  the  human  environment;  you  are  in 
the  unknown  abyss.  In  this  poem  the  imponder- 
able submits  to  the  laws  of  the  ponderable  with 
which  it  is  mingled,  as,  in  the  sudden  crash  of  a 
building  on  fire,  the  smoke,  carried  down  by  the 
ruins,  falls  and  rolls  with  them,  and  seems  caught 
under  the  timber  and  the  stones.  Hence  strange 
effects;  ideas  seem  to  suffer  and  to  be  punished 
in  men.  The  idea,  sufficiently  human  to  suffer 
expiation,  is  the  phantom,  a  form  of  the  shadow, 
impalpable,  but  not  invisible,  —  an  appearance  in 
which  there  remains  sufficient  reality  in  order  that 
chastisement  may  have  a  hold  upon  it ;  sin  in  the 
abstract  state,  but  preserving  the  human  counte- 
nance. It  is  not  only  the  wicked  who  grieves  in 
this  apocalypse,  it  is  evil  itself;  there  all  possible 
bad  actions  are  in  despair.  This  spiritualization 
of  penalty  gives  to  the  poem  a  powerful  moral 
bearing.  The  depth  of  Hell  once  sounded,  Dante 
pierces  it,  and  reascends  upon  the  other  side  of 
the  infinite.  In  rising,  he  becomes  idealized,  and 
thought  drops  the  body  as  a  robe.  From  Virgil 
he  passes  to  Beatrice:  his  guide  to  Hell  is  the 
poet;  his  guide  to  Heaven  is  poetry.  The  epic 
swells  into  grander  proportions  as  it  continues; 
but  man  no  longer  comprehends  it.  Purgatory 
and  Paradise  are  not  less  extraordinary  than 
Gehenna;  but  as  we  ascend  we  lose  our  interest. 
We  were  somewhat  at  home  in  Hell,  but  are  no 
longer  so  in  Heaven.  We  cannot  recognize  our 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  Ji 

fellows  in  the  angels :  perhaps  the  human  eye  is 
not  made  for  such  excess  of  light;  and  when 
the  poem  becomes  happy,  it  becomes  tedious. 
Such  is  ever  the  story  of  the  happy.  It  is  well  to 
marry  the  lovers  or  to  imparadise  the  souls ;  but 
seek  the  drama  elsewhere  than  there.  After  all, 
what  matters  it  to  Dante  if  you  no  longer  follow 
him?  He  goes  on  without  you.  He  stalks  alone, 
this  lion.  His  work  is  a  miracle.  What  a  philoso- 
pher is  this  visionary !  what  a  sage  is  this  mad- 
man !  Dante  lays  down  the  law  for  Montesquieu ; 
the  penal  divisions  of  'L'Esprit  des  Lois'  are  copied 
from  the  classifications  in  the  Hell  of  the  *  Divina 
Commedia.'  What  Juvenal  does  for  the  Rome  of 
the  Caesars,  Dante  does  for  the  Rome  of  the  Popes ; 
but  Dante  is  a  more  terrible  judge  than  Juvenal. 
Juvenal  whips  with  cutting  thongs;  Dante  scourges 
with  flames.  Juvenal  condemns;  Dante  damns. 
Woe  to  the  living  man  on  whom  this  traveller 
fixes  the  inscrutable  glare  of  his  eyes ! 

12.  Another,  Rabelais,  is  the  son  of  Gaul.  And 
who  says  Gaul,  says  also  Greece,  for  the  Attic 
salt  and  the  Gallic  jest  have  at  bottom  the  same 
flavor ;  and  if  anything,  buildings  apart,  resembles 
the  Piraeus,  it  is  La  Rapee.1  Here  is  a  greater  than 
Aristophanes,  for  Aristophanes  is  bad.  Rabelais  is 
good, —  Rabelais  would  have  defended  Socrates. 
In  the  order  of  lofty  genius,  Rabelais  chronologi- 
cally follows  Dante ;  after  the  stern  face,  the  sneer- 
ing visage.  Rabelais  is  the  formidable  mask  of 
ancient  comedy  detached  from  the  Greek  pro- 

1  La  Rapee  Bercy  is  an  eastern  suburb  of  Paris,  on  the  Seine. 
It  gives  its  name  to  a  station  on  the  belt  railroad.  —  TR. 


72  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

scenium,  from  bronze  made  flesh,  henceforth  a 
human  living  face,  remaining  enormous,  and  com- 
ing among  us  to  laugh  at  us  and  with  us.  Dante 
and  Rabelais  spring  from  the  school  of  the  Fran- 
ciscan friars,  as,  later,  Voltaire  springs  from  the 
Jesuits;  Dante  the  incarnate  sorrow,  Rabelais 
parody,  Voltaire  irony,  —  these  issue  from  the 
Church  against  the  Church.  Every  genius  has  his 
invention  or  his  discovery;  Rabelais  has  made  his, 

—  the  belly.     The  serpent  is  in  man,  it  is  the  in- 
testine.    It  tempts,  betrays,  and  punishes.     Man, 
single  being  as  a  spirit,  and  complex  as  man,  has 
within  himself  for  his  earthly  mission  three  centres, 

—  the  brain,  the  heart,  the  belly;    each  of  these 
centres  is  august  by  one   great  function  which  is 
peculiar  to   it:    the  brain  has  thought,  the  heart 
has  love,  the  belly  has  paternity  and  maternity. 
The  belly  may  be  tragic.     "  Feri  ventrem,"   says 
Agrippina.     Catherine  Sforza,  threatened  with  the 
death  of  her  children,  who  were  hostages,  exhibits 
herself  naked  to  the  navel  on  the  battlements  of 
the    citadel   of  Rimini,   and   says    to   the   enemy, 
"With  this  I  can  bring  forth  others."     In  one  of 
the   epic    convulsions   of  Paris,   a  woman  of  the 
people,  standing  on  a  barricade,  raised  her  petti- 
coat,  showed  the   soldiery  her   naked  belly,   and 
cried,  "  Kill  your  mothers  !  "     The  soldiers  riddled 
that  belly  with  bullets.     The  belly  has  its  heroism ; 
but  it  is  from  it  that  flow,  in  life,  corruption,  —  in 
art,  comedy.     The   breast,  where  the  heart  rests, 
has  for  its  summit  the  head ;    the  belly  has  the 
phallus.     The  belly,   being  the  centre   of  matter, 
is  our  gratification  and   our  danger;    it   contains 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  73 

appetite,  satiety,  and  putrefaction.  The  devotion, 
the  tenderness,  which  seize  us  there,  are  liable  to 
death;  egoism  replaces  them.  Easily  do  the  affec- 
tions become  lusts.  That  the  hymn  can  be  used 
in  the  service  of  Bacchus,  the  strophe  deformed 
into  a  tippler's  catch,  is  sad.  This  is  the  work  of 
the  beast  which  is  in  man.  The  belly  is  essen- 
tially this  beast;  degradation  seems  to  be  its  law. 
The  ladder  of  sensual  poetry  has  for  its  topmost 
round  the  Song  of  Songs,  and  for  its  lowest  the 
jingling  ballad.  The  belly  god  is  Silenus;  the 
belly  emperor  is  Vitellius;  the  belly  animal  is 
the  pig.  One  of  those  horrid  Ptolemies  was  called 
the  Belly  (Pkyscon).  The  belly  is  to  humanity  a 
formidable  weight ;  it  breaks  at  every  moment  the 
equilibrium  between  the  soul  and  the  body.  It 
fills  history ;  it  is  responsible  for  nearly  all  crimes ; 
it  is  the  matrix  of  all  vices.  It  is  the  belly  that  by 
voluptuousness  makes  the  sultan,  and  by  drunk- 
enness the  czar;  this  it  is  that  shows  Tarquin  to 
the  bed  of  Lucrece ;  this  it  is  that  makes  the  Senate 
which  had  awaited  Brennus  and  dazzled  Jugurtha, 
end  by  deliberating  on  the  sauce  of  a  turbot  It 
is  the  belly  which  counsels  the  ruined  libertine, 
Caesar,  the  passage  of  the  Rubicon.  To  pass  the 
Rubicon,  how  well  that  pays  your  debts !  To 
pass  the  Rubicon,  how  readily  that  throws  women 
into  your  arms !  What  good  dinners  afterward  ! 
And  the  Roman  soldiers  enter  Rome  with  the 
cry,  "  Urbani,  claudite  uxores ;  moechum  calvum 
adducimus."  The  appetite  debauches  the  intellect. 
Voluptuousness  replaces  will.  At  starting,  as  is  al- 
ways the  case,  there  is  some  nobleness :  this  is  the 


74  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

stage  of  the  revel.  There  is  a  distinction  between 
being  fuddled  and  being  dead  drunk.  Then  the 
revel  degenerates  into  guzzling.  Where  there  was 
a  Solomon  there  is  Ramponneau.  Man  becomes 
a  barrel;  thought  is  drowned  in  an  inner  deluge 
of  cloudy  notions ;  conscience,  submerged,  cannot 
'warn  the  drunken  soul.  Brutalization  is  consum- 
mated; it  is  not  even  any  longer  cynical,  it  is 
empty  and  sottish.  Diogenes  disappears;  there 
remains  but  the  tub.  Beginning  with  Alcibiades, 
we  end  with  Trimalchio,  and  the  thing  is  com- 
plete ;  nothing  is  left,  neither  dignity,  nor  shame, 
nor  honor,  nor  virtue,  nor  wit,  —  crude  animal 
gratification,  thorough  impurity.  Thought  is  dis- 
solved in  satiety;  carnal  gorging  absorbs  every- 
thing; nothing  survives  of  the  grand  sovereign 
creature  inhabited  by  the  soul ;  the  belly  (pass  the 
expression)  eats  the  man.  Such  is  the  final  state 
of  all  societies  where  the  ideal  is  eclipsed.  This 
passes  for  prosperity,  and  gets  the  name  of  growth. 
Sometimes  even  philosophers  heedlessly  further 
this  degradation  by  inserting  in  their  doctrines  the 
materialism  which  is  in  men's  consciences.  This 
sinking  of  man  to  the  level  of  the  human  beast  is 
a  great  calamity.  Its  first-fruit  is  the  turpitude 
visible  at  the  summit  of  all  professions :  the  venal 
judge,  the  simoniacal  priest,  the  hireling  soldier; 
laws,  manners,  and  beliefs  are  a  dung-heap,  —  totus 
homo  fit  excrementum. 

In  the  sixteenth  century,  all  the  institutions  of 
the  past  are  in  that  state.  Rabelais  gets  hold  of 
the  situation ;  he  verifies  it ;  he  authenticates  that 
belly  which  is  the  world.  Civilization  is,  then,  but 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  f$ 

a  mass,  science  is  matter,  religion  is  blessed  with 
hams,  feudality  digests,  royalty  is  obese.  What  is 
Henry  VIII.?  A  paunch.  Rome  is  a  squab- 
pampered  old  dame:  is  it  health?  is  it  sickness? 
It  is  perhaps  obesity,  perhaps  dropsy.  Rabelais, 
doctor  and  priest,  feels  the  pulse  of  the  Papacy ; 
he  shakes  his  head,  and  bursts  out  laughing.  Is 
it  because  he  has  found  life?  No,  it  is  because 
he  has  felt  death;  the  Papacy  is,  in  reality, 
breathing  its  last.  While  Luther  reforms,  Rabe- 
lais jests.  Which  best  attains  his  end?  Rabelais 
ridicules  the  monk,  the  bishop,  the  Pope ;  laugh- 
ter and  death-rattle  together;  fool's  bell  sounding 
the  tocsin !  But  look !  I  thought  it  was  a  feast 

—  it  is  a  death-agony ;    one  may  be  deceived  in 
the  nature  of  the   hiccup.     Let  us  laugh  all   the 
same :   death  is  at  the  table ;   the  last  drop  toasts 
the  last  sigh.     A  death-agony  in  the  merry  mood, 

—  it  is  superb !     The  large   intestine  is  king ;   all 
that  old  world   feasts    and    bursts;    and    Rabelais 
enthrones    a    dynasty    of    bellies,  —  Grangousier, 
Pantagruel,     and     Gargantua.      Rabelais     is    the 
^Eschylus  of  victuals ;  and  this  is  grand  when  we 
think  that  eating  is  devouring.      There  is  some- 
thing of  the  gulf  in  the   glutton.     Eat,  then,  my 
masters,  and  drink,  and  come  to  the   finale.     To 
live,  is  a  song,  of  which  death  is  the  refrain.     Be- 
neath the  depraved  human  race  others  may  dig 
dreadful   dungeons;    but  in  the    direction  of  the 
subterranean,  Rabelais  takes   you  no  farther  than 
the  wine-cellar.     This  universe,  which  Dante  put 
into   Hell,   Rabelais  confines   in  a  wine-cask;    his 
book  is  nothing  else.    The  seven  circles  of  Alighieri 


76  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

bound  and  encompass  this  extraordinary  tun.  Look 
within  the  monstrous  cask,  and  there  you  see 
them  again.  In  Rabelais  they  are  entitled  Idle- 
ness, Pride,  Envy,  Avarice,  Wrath,  Lechery,  Glut- 
tony ;  and  it  is  thus  that  you  suddenly  meet  again 
the  formidable  jester.  Where?  In  church.  The 
seven  deadly  sins  form  the  text  of  this  parson's 
sermon.  Rabelais  is  a  priest.  Castigation,  prop- 
erly understood,  begins  at  home ;  it  is  therefore  at 
the  clergy  that  he  strikes  first.  That  is  what  it  is 
to  be  at  home !  The  Papacy  dies*  of  indigestion. 
Rabelais  plays  the  Papacy  a  trick,  —  the  trick  of  a 
Titan.  The  Pantagruelian  merriment  is  not  less 
grandiose  than  the  mirth  of  a  Jupiter.  Cheek  by 
jowl :  the  monarchical  and  priestly  jowl  eats ; 
the  Rabelaisian  cheek  laughs.  Whoever  has  read 
Rabelais  has  forever  before  his  eyes  this  stern  con- 
frontment:  the  mask  of  comedy  fixing  its  stare 
upon  the  mask  of  theocracy. 

13.  Another,  Cervantes,  is  also  a  form  of  epic 
mockery;  for  as  the  writer  of  these  lines  said  in 
I82/,1  there  are  between  the  Middle  Ages  and 
modern  times,  after  the  feudal  barbarism,  and 
placed  there  as  it  were  to  make  an  end  of  it,  two 
comic  Homers,  —  Rabelais  and  Cervantes.  To 
epitomize  the  horrible  in  a  jest,  is  not  the  least 
terrible  manner  of  doing  it.  This  is  what  Rabelais 
did ;  it  is  what  Cervantes  did  :  but  the  raillery  of 
Cervantes  has  nothing  of  the  broad  Rabelaisian 
grin.  It  is  the  fine  humor  of  the  noble  after  the 
joviality  of  the  parson.  Gentlemen,  I  am  the 
Seignior  Don  Miguel  Cervantes  de  Saavedra,  poet- 

1  Preface  to  Cromwell. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  77 

soldier,  and,  as  a  proof,  one-armed.  No  coarse 
jesting  in  Cervantes ;  scarcely  a  flavor  of  elegant 
cynicism.  The  satirist  is  fine,  acute,  polished, 
delicate,  almost  gallant,  and  would  even  run  the 
risk  sometimes  of  diminishing  his  power,  with  all 
his  affected  ways,  if  he  had  not  the  deep  poetic 
spirit  of  the  Renascence.  That  saves  his  charm- 
ing grace  from  becoming  prettiness.  Like  Jean 
Goujon,  like  Jean  Cousin,  like  Germain  Pilon,  like 
Primatice,  Cervantes  is  not  devoid  of  illusion. 
Thence  come  all  the  unexpected  marvels  of  his 
imagination.  Add  to  that  a  wonderful  intuition 
of  the  inmost  processes  of  the  mind  and  a  multi- 
form philosophy  which  seems  to  possess  a  new 
and  complete  chart  of  the  human  heart.  Cervan- 
tes sees  the  inner  man.  His  philosophy  blends 
with  the  comic  and  romantic  instinct.  Hence  the 
unexpected,  breaking  out  at  every  moment  in  his 
characters,  in  his  action,  in  his  style;  the  unfor- 
seen,  magnificent  adventure.  Personages  remain- 
ing true  to  themselves,  but  facts  and  ideas  whirling 
around  them,  with  a  perpetual  renewing  of  the 
original  idea  and  a  steady  current  of  that  wind  which 
brings  the  lightning-flash :  such  is  the  law  of  great 
works.  Cervantes  is  militant ;  he  has  a  thesis,  he 
makes  a  social  book.  Such  poets  are  the  cham- 
pions of  the  intelligence.  Where  have  they 
learned  fighting?  On  the  battle-field  itself.  Juve- 
nal was  a  military  tribune ;  Cervantes  comes  home 
from  Lepanto,  as  Dante  from  Campalbino,  as 
^Eschylus  from  Salamis.  Afterward,  they  pass  to 
a  new  trial :  ^Eschylus  goes  into  exile,  Juvenal  in- 
to exile,  Dante  into  exile,  Cervantes  into  prison. 


78  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

This  is  just,  since  they  have  done  you  a  service. 
Cervantes,  as  poet,  has  the  three  sovereign  gifts,  — 
creation,  which  produces  types  and  clothes  ideas 
with  flesh  and  bone;  invention,  which  hurls  pas- 
sions against  events,  kindles  in  man  a  flame  that 
outshines  the  star  of  destiny,  and  brings  forth  the 
drama ;  imagination,  sun  of  the  brain,  which  throws 
light  everywhere,  giving  to  its  figures  the  high- 
relief  of  life.  Observation,  which  comes  by  acqui- 
sition, and  is,  therefore,  not  so  much  a  gift  as 
an  accomplishment,  is  included  in  creation;  were 
the  miser  not  observed,  Harpagon  would  not  be 
created.  In  Cervantes,  a  new-comer,  glimpsed  in 
Rabelais,  puts  in  a  decided  appearance.  You  have 
caught  sight  of  him  in  Panurge,  you  see  him 
plainly  in  Sancho  Panza.  He  comes  like  the 
Silenus  of  Plautus,  and  he  may  also  say,  "  I  am  the 
god  mounted  on  an  ass."  Wisdom  in  the  begin- 
ning, reason  by  and  by :  such  is  the  strange  history 
of  the  human  mind.  What  more  replete  with 
wisdom  than  all  the  religions?  What  less  reason- 
able? Morals  true,  dogmas  false.  Wisdom  exists 
in  Homer  and  in  Job ;  reason,  such  as  it  must 
needs  be  to  overcome  prejudices,  that  is  to  say, 
complete  and  armed  cap-a-pie,  will  come  in  only 
with  Voltaire.  Common-sense  is  not  wisdom, 
neither  is  it  reason ;  it  is  a  little  of  one  and  a  little 
of  the  other,  with  a  dash  of  egoism.  Cervantes 
makes  it  bestride  ignorance,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
completing  his  profound  satire,  he  mounts  heroism 
upon  fatigue.  Thus  he  shows  one  after  the  other, 
one  with  the  other,  the  two  profiles  of  man,  and 
parodies  them,  without  more  pity  for  the  sublime 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


79 


than  for  the  grotesque;  the  hippogriff  becomes 
Rosinante.  Behind  the  equestrian  personage, 
Cervantes  creates  and  sets  in  motion  the  asinine 
personage.  Enthusiasm  takes  the  field,  Irony 
locks  step  with  it.  The  wonderful  feats  of  Don 
Quixote,  his  riding  and  spurring,  his  big  lance 
steady  in  the  rest,  are  judged  by  the  ass,  —  a  con- 
noisseur in  windmills.  The  invention  of  Cervantes 
is  so  masterly  that  there  is,  between  the  human 
type  and  the  quadruped  complement,  statuary 
adhesion ;  the  babbler,  like  the  adventurer,  is  part 
of  the  beast  that  is  proper  to  him,  and  you  can  no 
more  dismount  Sancho  Panza  than  Don  Quixote. 
The  Ideal  is  in  Cervantes  as  in  Dante;  but  it  is 
called  the  Impossible,  and  is  scoffed  at.  Beatrice 
is  become  Dulcinea.  To  rail  at  the  ideal  would  be 
the  failing  of  Cervantes  ;  but  this  failing  is  only 
apparent.  Look  well,  —  the  smile  has  a  tear;  in 
reality,  Cervantes  sides  with  Don  Quixote,  as 
Moliere  sides  with  Alceste.  One  must  learn  how 
to  read,  especially  in  the  books  of  the  sixteenth 
century ;  there  is  in  almost  all,  on  account  of  the 
threats  hanging  over  freedom  of  thought,  a  secret 
that  must  be  unlocked,  and  whose  key  is  often 
lost.  Rabelais  has  his  reserves,  Cervantes  has  an 
aside,  Machiavelli  wears  a  mask,  —  more  than  one, 
perhaps.  At  all  events,  the  advent  of  common- 
sense  is  the  great  fact  in  Cervantes.  Common- 
sense  is  not  a  virtue ;  it  is  the  eye  of  self-interest. 
It  would  have  encouraged  Themistocles,  and  dis- 
suaded Aristides ;  Leonidas  has  no  common-sense, 
Regulus  has  no  common-sense :  but  in  face  of 
selfish  and  ferocious  monarchies  dragging  their 


80  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

unhappy  peoples  into  their  own  private  wars, 
decimating  families,  making  mothers  desolate,  and 
driving  men  to  kill  each  other  with  all  those  fine 
words,  —  military  honor,  warlike  glory,  obedience 
to  orders,  etc.,  etc.,  —  this  Common-Sense  is  an 
admirable  personage,  arising  suddenly,  and  crying 
out  to  the  human  race,  "  Take  care  of  your  skin  !  " 
14.  Another,  Shakespeare:  what  is  he?  You 
might  almost  answer,  He  is  the  earth.  Lucretius 
is  the  sphere,  Shakespeare  is  the  globe.  There  is 
more  and  less  in  the  globe  than  in  the  sphere.  In 
the  sphere  there  is  the  All ;  on  the  globe  there  is 
man.  Here  the  outer,  there  the  inner  mys- 
tery. Lucretius  is  being,  Shakespeare  is  exist- 
ence. Hence  the  shadow  that  is  in  Lucretius; 
hence  the  teeming  life  in  Shakespeare.  Space  — 
"  the  blue,"  as  the  Germans  say  —  is  certainly  not 
denied  to  Shakespeare.  The  earth  sees  and  trav- 
erses the  heavens;  the  earth  knows  them  under 
their  two  aspects,  —  darkness  and  azure,  doubt  and 
hope.  Life  comes  and  goes  in  death.  All  life  is  a 
secret,  a  sort  of  enigmatical  parenthesis  between 
birth  and  the  death-throe,  between  the  opening 
and  the  closing  eye.  The  possession  of  this 
secret  renders  Shakespeare  restless.  Lucretius 
is;  Shakespeare  lives.  In  Shakespeare  the  birds 
sing,  the  bushes  are  clothed  with  green,  hearts 
love,  souls  suffer,  the  cloud  wanders,  it  is  hot, 
it  is  cold,  night  falls,  time  passes,  forests  and 
multitudes  speak,  the  vast  eternal  dream  hovers 
over  all.  Sap  and  blood,  all  forms  of  the  multi- 
ple reality,  actions  and  ideas,  man  and  humanity, 
the  living  and  the  life,  solitudes,  cities,  religions, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  8 1 

diamonds  and  pearls,  dung-hills  and  charnel- 
houses,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  beings,  the  steps  of 
comers  and  goers,  all,  all  are  on  Shakespeare  and 
in  Shakespeare ;  and,  this  genius  being  the  earth, 
the  dead  emerge  from  it.  Certain  sinister  sides 
of  Shakespeare  are  haunted  by  spectres.  Shake- 
speare is  a  brother  of  Dante :  the  one  completes 
the  other.  Dante  incarnates  all  supernaturalism, 
Shakespeare  all  Nature;  and  as  these  two  regions, 
Nature  and  the  supernatural,  which  appear  to  us 
so  different,  are  really  the  same  unity,  Dante 
and  Shakespeare,  however  dissimilar,  have  con- 
terminous boundaries  and  domains  in  common: 
there  is  something  of  the  human  in  Alighieri, 
something  of  the  spectre  in  Shakespeare.  The 
skull  passes  from  the  hands  of  Dante  into  the 
hands  of  Shakespeare.  Ugolino  gnaws  it,  Hamlet 
questions  it;  and  it  exhibits  perhaps  even  a 
deeper  meaning  and  a  loftier  teaching  in  the 
second  than  in  the  first.  Shakespeare  shakes  it 
and  makes  stars  fall  from  it.  The  isle  of  Pros- 
pero,  the  forest  of  Ardennes,  the  heath  of  Har- 
muir,  the  platform  of  Elsinore,  are  illuminated, 
no  less  than  the  seven  circles  of  Dante's  spiral, 
by  the  sombre,  reflected  light  of  hypothesis. 
Doubt,  half  chimera  and  half  truth,  is  outlined 
there  as  well  as  here.  Shakespeare,  as  well  as 
Dante,  gives  us  glimpses  of  the  dim  horizon  of 
conjecture.  In  the  one  as  in  the  other  there  is 
the  possible,  that  window  of  the  dream  opening 
upon  reality.  As  for  the  real,  we  insist,  Shake- 
speare overflows  with  it;  everywhere  the  quick 
flesh.  Shakespeare  has  emotion,  instinct,  the  true 

6 


82  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

voice,  the  right  tone,  the  whole  human  multitude 
with  its  clamor.  His  poetry  is  himself,  and  at  the 
same  time  it  is  you.  Like  Homer,  Shakespeare  is 
elemental.  Men  of  genius,  renewers,  —  that  is  the 
name  for  them,  —  arise  at  all  the  decisive  crises  of 
humanity;  they  epitomize  epochs,  and  complete 
revolutions.  In  civilization,  Homer  indicates  the 
end  of  Asia  and  the  beginning  of  Europe ;  Shake- 
speare the  end  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Rabelais  and 
Cervantes  also  mark  the  close  of  the  Middle  Ages ; 
but,  being  essentially  satirists,  they  give  but  a 
partial  view.  Shakespeare's  mind  is  a  total ;  like 
Homer,  Shakespeare  is  a  cyclic  man.  These  two 
intelligences,  Homer  and  Shakespeare,  close  the 
two  gates  of  Barbarism,  —  the  ancient  gate,  and 
the  Gothic.  That  was  their  mission  —  they  have 
fulfilled  it;  that  was  their  task  —  they  have  accom- 
plished it.  The  third  great  human  crisis  is  the 
French  Revolution;  the  third  huge  gate  of  bar- 
barism, the  monarchical  gate,  is  closing  at  this 
moment.  The  nineteenth  century  hears  it  rolling 
on  its  hinges.  Thence  for  poetry,  for  the  drama, 
and  for  art,  arises  the  present  era,  equally  inde- 
pendent of  Shakespeare  and  of  Homer. 


CHAPTER   III. 

HOMER,  Job,  ^Eschylus,  Isaiah,  Ezekiel,  Lucre- 
tius, Juvenal,  Saint  John,  Saint  Paul,  Tacitus,  Dante, 
Rabelais,  Cervantes,  Shakespeare,  —  that  is  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  83 

avenue  of  the  immovable  giants  of  the  human 
mind. 

Men  of  genius  form  a  dynasty  :  indeed,  there  is 
no  other.  They  wear  all  the  crowns,  even  that  of 
thorns.  Each  of  them  represents  the  sum-total  of 
absolute  truth  realizable  to  man. 

We  rep.eat  it :  to  choose  between  these  men,  to 
prefer  one  to  the  other,  to  point  with  the  finger  to 
the  first  among  these  first,  is  impossible.  All  are 
the  Mind.  Perhaps,  by  the  strictest  measurements, 
—  and  yet  every  objection  would  be  legitimate,  — 
one  might  mark  out  as  the  highest  among  these 
summits,  Homer,  ^Eschylus,  Job,  Isaiah,  Dante, 
and  Shakespeare. 

It  is  understood  that  we  speak  here  only  from 
the  artistic  standpoint  ;  to  be  still  more  specific, 
from  the  standpoint  of  literary  art. 

Two  men  in  this  group,  ^schylus  and  Shake- 
speare, represent  especially  the  drama. 

^Eschylus,  a  kind  of  genius  out  of  his  time,  wor- 
thy to  mark  either  a  beginning  or  an  end  in  hu- 
manity, appears  not  to  be  placed  in  his  right  turn 
in  the  series,  and,  as  we  have  said,  seems  an  elder 
brother  of  Homer. 

If  we  remember  that  ^Eschylus  is  nearly  sub- 
merged by  the  darkness  rising  over  human  mem- 
ory; if  we  remember  that  ninety  of  his  plays 
have  disappeared,  that  of  that  sublime  hundred 
there  remain  no  more  than  seven  dramas,  which 
are  also  seven  odes,  —  we  are  astounded  by  what 
we  see  of  this  genius,  and  almost  terrified  by  what 
we  do  not  see. 

What,  then,  was  ^Eschylus  ?     What  proportions 


84  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

and  what  forms  had  he  in  all  this  shadow  ? 
chylus  is  up  to  his  shoulders  in  the  ashes  of  ages ; 
his  head  alone  rises  above  that  burial,  and,  like  the 
colossus  of  the  desert,  with  his  head  alone  he  is  as 
tall  as  all  the  neighboring  gods,  upright  upon  their 
pedestals. 

Man  passes  before  the  insubmergible  wreck. 
Enough  remains  for  an  immense  glory.  What 
oblivion  has  swallowed,  adds  an  unknown  element 
to  his  grandeur.  Buried  and  eternal,  his  brow 
projecting  from  the  sepulchre,  ^Eschylus  looks 
forth  upon  the  generations  of  men. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

To  the  eyes  of  the  thinker,  these  men  of  genius 
occupy  thrones  in  the  ideal  kingdom.  To  the  in- 
dividual works  that  these  men  have  left  us  must 
be  added  various  vast  collective  works,  —  the 
Vedas,  the  Ramayana,  the  Mahabharata,  the  Edda, 
the  Nibelungen,  the  Heldenbuch,  the  Romancero. 

Some  of  these  works  are  revealed  and  sacred. 
They  bear  the  marks  of  unknown  collaboration. 
The  poems  of  India,  in  particular,  have  the  omi- 
nous fulness  of  the  possible,  as  imagined  by  in- 
sanity or  related  in  the  vision.  These  works  seem 
to  have  been  composed  in  common  with  beings 
to  whom  our  world  is  no  longer  accustomed.  Leg- 
endary horror  covers  these  epics.  "  These  books 
were  not  composed  by  man  alone,"  says  the  in- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  85 

scription  of  Ash-Nagar.  Djinns  have  alighted  upon 
them,  polypteral  magi  have  mused  over  them ; 
the  texts  have  been  interlined  by  invisible  hands, 
the  demi-gods  have  been  aided  by  demi-demons ; 
the  elephant,  which  India  calls  the  Sage,  has  been 
consulted.  Thence  comes  a  majesty  almost  hor- 
rible. The  great  enigmas  are  in  these  poems: 
they  are  full  of  mysterious  Asia.  Their  promi- 
nent parts  have  the  supernatural  and  hideous 
outline  of  chaos.  They  form  a  mass  above  the 
horizon,  like  the  Himalayas.  The  distance  of  the 
manners,  beliefs,  ideas,  actions,  persons,  is  extra- 
ordinary. One  reads  these  poems  with  that  won- 
dering droop  of  the  head  induced  by  the  profound 
distance  between  the  book  and  the  reader.  This 
Holy  Writ  of  Asia  has  evidently  been  still  more 
difficult  to  reduce  and  to  co-ordinate  than  our  own. 
It  is  in  every  part  refractory  to  unity.  In  vain 
have  the  Brahmins,  like  our  priests,  erased  and 
interpolated :  Zoroaster  is  there ;  Ized  Serosch  is 
there.  The  Eschem  of  the  Mazdaean  traditions  is 
discernible  under  the  name  of  Siva;  Manicheism 
is  apparent  between  Brahma  and  Booddha.  All 
kinds  of  traces  blend,  cross,  and  recross  each 
other  in  these  poems.  One  perceives  in  them  the 
mysterious  footprints  of  a  race  of  intelligences 
who  have  worked  at  them  in  the  darkness  of  the 
centuries.  Here  is  the  enormous  toe  of  the  giant; 
there,  the  claw  of  the  chimera.  These  poems  are 
the  pyramid  of  a  vanished  colony  of  ants. 

The  Nibelungen,  another  pyramid  of  another 
multitudinous  race,  has  the  same  greatness.  What 
the  divinities  did  in  Asia,  the  elves  have  done  here. 


86  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

These  powerful  epic  legends,  the  testaments  of 
ages,  tattooings  stamped  by  races  on  history,  have 
no  other  unity  than  the  unity  of  the  people  itself. 
The  collective  and  the  successive,  combining  to- 
gether, are  one.  Turba  fit  mens.  These  recitals 
are  clouds,  laced  by  wonderful  flashes  of  light. 
As  to  the  Romancero,  which  creates  the  Cid  after 
Achilles,  and  the  chivalric  after  the  heroic,  it  is 
the  Iliad  of  several  lost  Homers.  Count  Julian, 
King  Roderigo,  Cava,  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  the 
bastard  Mudarra,  Nufio  Salido,  the  Seven  Infantes 
of  Lara,  the  Constable  Alvar  de  Luna, — no  Orien- 
tal or  Hellenic  type  surpasses  these  figures.  The 
horse  of  Campeador  is  equal  to  the  dog  of  Ulys- 
ses. Between  Priam  and  Lear  you  must  place 
Don  Arias,  the  old  man  of  Zamora's  tower,  sacri- 
ficing his  seven  sons  to  his  duty,  and  tearing  them 
from  his  heart  one  by  one.  There  is  grandeur  in 
that.  In  presence  of  these  sublimities  the  reader 
suffers  a  sort  of  sun-stroke. 

These  works  are  anonymous;  and,  owing  to  tfrs 
great  reason  of  the  homo  sum,  while  admiring 
them,  while  assigning  them  a  place  at  the  summit 
of  art,  we  prefer  the  acknowledged  works.  With 
equal  beauty,  the  Ramayana  touches  us  less  than 
Shakespeare.  The  ego  of  a  man  is  more  vast  and 
profound  even  than  the  ego  of  a  people. 

However,  these  composite  myriologues,  the  great 
testaments  of  India  particularly,  expanses  of  poetry 
rather  than  poems,  an  expression,  at  once  sidereal 
and  bestial,  of  vanished  races,  derive  from  their 
very  deformity  an  indescribable  supernatural  air. 
The  multiple  ego  expressed  by  those  myriologues 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  87 

makes  them  the  polypi  of  poetry,  vague  and  won- 
derful monstrosities.  The  strange  seams  of  the 
antediluvian  rough  outline  are  visible  there,  as  in 
the  ichthyosaurus  or  the  pterodactyl.  One  of  these 
black,  many-headed  masterpieces  throws  upon  the 
horizon  of  art  the  silhouette  of  a  hydra. 

The  Greek  genius  is  not  deceived  by  them,  and 
abhors  them  ;  Apollo  would  attack  them.  Beyond 
and  above  all  these  collective  and  anonymous  pro- 
ductions (the  Romancero  excepted),  there  are  men 
to  represent  the  peoples.  These  men  we  have  just 
named.  They  give  to  nations  and  periods  the 
human  countenance.  They  are,  in  art,  the  incar- 
nations of  Greece,  of  Arabia,  of  Judaea,  of  Pagan 
Rome,  of  Christian  Italy,  of  Spain,  of  France,  of 
England.  As  for  Germany,  —  the  matrix,  like  Asia, 
of  races,  hordes,  and  nations,  —  she  is  represented 
in  art  by  a  sublime  man,  equal,  although  in  a  differ- 
ent category,  to  all  those  that  we  have  characterized 
above.  That  man  is  Beethoven.  Beethoven  is  the 
German  soul. 

What  a  shadow  is  this  Germany!  She  is  the 
India  of  the  West.  She  contains  everything ;  there 
is  no  formation  more  colossal.  In  the  sacred  mist 
where  the  German  spirit  moves,  Isidore  of  Seville 
places  theology;  Albertus  the  Great,  scholasti- 
cism ;  Hrabanus  Maurus,  linguistics ;  Trithemius, 
astrology  ;  Ottni,  chivalry ;  Reuchlin,  vast  curi- 
osity ;  Tutilo,  universality  ;  Stadianus,  method  ; 
Luther,  inquiry;  Albrecht  Diirer,  art;  Leibnitz,  sci- 
ence; Puffendorf,  law;  Kant,  philosophy;  Fichte, 
metaphysics;  Winkelmann,  archaeology;  Herder, 
aesthetics  ;  the  Vossii,  —  of  whom  one,  Gerard 


88  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

John,  was  of  the  Palatinate,  —  erudition ;  Euler,  the 
spirit  of  integration ;  Humboldt,  the  spirit  of  dis- 
covery; Niebuhr,  history;  Gottfried  of  Strasburg, 
fable ;  Hoffmann,  dreams ;  Hegel,  doubt ;  Ancillon, 
obedience ;  Werner,  fatalism ;  Schiller,  enthusiasm ; 
Goethe,  indifference;  Arminius,  liberty. 

Kepler  lights  this  shadow  with  the  stars. 

Gerard  Groot,  the  founder  of  the  Fratres  Com- 
munis  Vita,  makes  in  Germany  a  first  attempt  at 
fraternity,  in  the  fourteenth  century.  Whatever 
may  have  been  her  infatuation  for  the  indifference 
of  Goethe,  do  not  deem  her  impersonal ;  she  is  a 
nation,  and  one  of  the  most  generous :  for  her, 
Ruckert,  the  military  poet,  forges  the  '  Geharnischte 
Sonnette  '  ('Sonnets  in  Coat  of  Mail'),  and  she 
shudders  when  Korner  hurls  at  her  the  Song  of  the 
Sword.  She  is  the  German  fatherland,  the  great 
beloved  land,  Teutonia  mater.  Galgacus  was  to 
the  Germans  what  Caractacus  was  to  the  Britons. 

Within  herself  and  at  home,  Germany  has  every- 
thing. She  shares  Charlemagne  with  France,  and 
Shakespeare  with  England  ;  for  the  Saxon  element 
is  mingled  with  the  British  element.  She  has  an 
Olympus,  the  Valhalla.  She  must  needs  have  her 
own  style  of  writing.  Ulfilas,  bishop  of  Mcesia. 
invents  it  for  her,  and  the  Gothic  caligraphy  will 
henceforth  form  a  pendant  to  the  Arabic.  The 
capital  letter  of  a  missal  rivals  the  fantastical 
signature  of  a  caliph.  Like  China,  Germany  has 
invented  printing.  Her  Burgraves  (this  remark  has 
been  already  made l)  are  to  us  what  the  Titans  are 
to  ^Eschylus.  To  the  temple  of  Tanfana,  destroyed 

1  Preface  to  the  Burgraves,  1843. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  89 

by  Germanicus,  she  caused  the  cathedral  of  Cologne 
to  succeed.  She  is  the  ancestress  of  our  history, 
the  grandam  of  our  legends.  From  all  parts, — 
from  the  Rhine  and  from  the  Danube,  from  the 
Rauhe  Alp,  from  the  ancient  Sylva  Gabresa,  from 
Upper  Lorraine  and  from  Lower  Lorraine,  through 
the  Wigalois  and  through  the  Wigamur,  through 
Henry  the  Fowler,  through  Samo  King  of  the 
Vends,  through  Rothe  the  chronicler  of  Thuringia, 
through  Zwinger  the  chronicler  of  Alsace,  through 
Gansbein  the  chronicler  of  Limburg,  through  all 
those  ancient  popular  songsters,  Hans  Folz,  Jean 
Viol,  Muscatblut,  through  those  rhapsodists  the 
Minnesingers,  —  from  all  sources  the  tale,  that 
form  of  dream,  reaches  her  and  enters  into  her 
genius.  At  the  same  time  languages  flow  from 
her.  From  her  fissures  gush,  to  the  North,  the 
Danish  and  Swedish ;  to  the  West,  the  Dutch 
and  Flemish.  The  German  passes  the  Channel 
and  becomes  the  English.  In  the  intellectual  or- 
der, the  German  genius  has  other  frontiers  than 
Germany.  A  given  people  may  resist  Germany 
and  yield  to  Germanism.  The  German  spirit  as- 
similates to  itself  the  Greeks  by  Miiller,  the  Servians 
by  Gerhard,  the  Russians  by  Goe'tre,  the  Magyars 
by  Mailath.  When  Kepler,  in  the  presence  of 
Rudolph  II.,  was  preparing  the  Rudolphine  Tables, 
it  was  with  the  aid  of  Tycho  Brahe.1  German  af- 
finities extend  far.  Without  any  alteration  in  the 
local  and  national  autonomies,  it  is  with  the  great 

1  The  Rudolphine  Tables,  published  in  1627,  appear  to  have 
been  prepared  long  after  the  death  of  Tycho,  which  occurred  in 
1601.  — TR. 


9O  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Germanic  centre  that  the  Scandinavian  spirit  in 
Oehlenschlager  and  the  Batavian  spirit  in  Vondel 
are  connected.  Poland  unites  herself  to  it,  with 
all  her  glory,  from  Copernicus  to  Kosciusko,  from 
Sobieski  to  Mickiewicz.  Germany  is  the  wellspring 
of  nations.  They  pass  out  of  her  like  rivers ;  she 
receives  them  as  a  sea. 

The  vast  murmur  of  the  Hercynian  forest  seems 
to  be  heard  throughout  Europe.  The  German 
nature,  profound  and  subtle,  distinct  from  the  Eu- 
ropean nature,  but  in  harmony  with  it,  volatilizes 
and  floats  above  the  nations.  The  German  mind 
is  misty,  luminous,  dispersed ;  it  is  a  kind  of  im- 
mense beclouded  soul,  with  stars.  Perhaps  the 
highest  expression  of  Germany  can  be  given  only 
by  music.  Music,  by  its  very  want  of  precision, 
which  in  this  case  is  a  quality,  goes  wherever  the 
German  soul  goes. 

If  the  German  spirit  had  as  much  density  as  ex- 
pansion, —  that  is  to  say,  as  much  will  as  power,  — 
she  could,  at  a  given  moment,  lift  up  and  save  the 
human  race.  Such  as  she  is,  she  is  sublime. 

In  poetry  she  has  not  said  her  last  word.  At 
this  hour  the  indications  are  excellent.  Since  the 
jubilee  of  the  noble  Schiller,  particularly,  there  has 
been  an  awakening,  and  a  generous  awakening. 
The  great  definitive  poet  of  Germany  will  be  neces- 
sarily a  poet  of  humanity,  of  enthusiasm,  of  liberty. 
Perchance  —  and  some  signs  give  token  of  it  —  we 
may  soon  see  him  arise  from  the  young  group  of 
contemporary  German  writers. 

Music  (we  beg  indulgence  for  the  figure)  is  the 
vapor  of  art.  It  is  to  poetry  what  revery  is  to 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  Qi 

thought,  what  fluid  is  to  liquid,  what  the  ocean  of 
clouds  is  to  the  ocean  of  waves.  If  another  analogy 
is  desired,  it  is  the  indefinite  of  this  infinite.  The 
same  insufflation  impels,  sweeps  away,  transports, 
and  overwhelms  it,  fills  it  with  agitation  and  gleams 
and  unutterable  sounds,  saturates  it  with  electri- 
city, and  causes  it  to  give  forth  sudden  discharges 
of  thunder. 

Music  is  the  Word  of  Germany.  The  German 
people,  so  much  curbed  as  a  nation,  so  emanci- 
pated as  thinkers,  sing  with  a  sombre  delight.  To 
sing,  seems  a  deliverance  from  bondage.  Music 
expresses  that  which  cannot  be  said,  and  which 
cannot  be  suppressed.  Therefore  is  Germany  all 
music,  in  anticipation  of  the  time  when  she  shall 
be  all  freedom.  Luther's  choral  is  a  kind  of 
Marseillaise.  Everywhere  are  singing-clubs  and 
choral  circles.  In  the  fields  of  Swabian  Esslingen, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Neckar,  comes  every  year 
the  Festival  of  Song.  The  Liedermusik,  of  which 
Schubert's  '  Elf-King '  is  the  masterpiece,  makes 
a  part  of  German  life.  Song  is  for  Germany  a 
breathing:  it  is  by  singing  that  she  respires  and 
conspires.  The  music-note  being  the  syllable  of  a 
kind  of  undefined  universal  language,  Germany's 
grand  communication  with  the  human  race  is  made 
through  harmony,  —  an  admirable  prelude  to  unity. 
It  is  by  the  clouds  that  the  rains  which  fertilize  the 
earth  ascend  from  the  sea ;  it  is  by  music  that  ideas 
emanate  from  Germany  to  take  possession  of  the 
minds  of  men.  Therefore  we  may  say  that  Ger- 
many's greatest  poets  are  her  musicians,  of  which 
wonderful  family  Beethoven  is  the  head. 


92  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Homer  is  the  great  Pelasgian;  ^Eschylus,  the 
great  Hellene;  Isaiah,  the  great  Hebrew ;  Juvenal, 
the  great  Roman ;  Dante,  the  great  Italian ;  Shake- 
speare, the  great  Englishman ;  Beethoven,  the  great 
German. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  dethroned  "  Good  Taste,"  —  that  other 
"  right  divine  "  which  for  so  long  a  time  weighed 
upon  Art,  and  which  had  succeeded  in  suppressing 
the  beautiful  for  the  benefit  of  the  pretty,  —  the  an- 
cient criticism,  not  altogether  dead,  like  the  ancient 
monarchy,  find  from  their  point  of  view  the  same 
fault,  exaggeration,  in  those  sovereign  men  of  ge- 
nius whom  we  have  enumerated.1  These  men  of 
genius  are  extravagant.  This  arises  from  the  in- 
finite element  within  them ;  they  are,  in  fact,  not 
circumscribed.  They  contain  something  unknown. 
Every  reproach  that  is  addressed  to  them  might 
be  addressed  to  the  Sphinx.  People  reproach  Ho- 
mer for  the  carnage  which  fills  his  den,  the  Iliad ; 
^Eschylus,  for  his  monstrousness ;  Job,  Isaiah,  Eze- 
kiel,  Saint  Paul,  for  double  meanings ;  Rabelais, 

1  To  those  unacquainted  with  the  history  of  French  literature 
during  the  thirties  and  forties  of  this  century,  this  sentence  may 
require  explanation.  Good  taste  (le  bon  gotit]  and  the  ancient 
criticism  were  the  legitimate  literary  monarchs,  against  whose 
regime  Victor  Hugo's  career  was  a  continuous  insurrection.  If 
"  Bon  Gotit "  is  an  ex-king,  Victor  Hugo  is  his  Cromwell  or  his 
Brutus.  — TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  93 

for  obscene  nudity  and  venomous  ambiguity ;  Cer- 
vantes, for  insidious  laughter ;  Shakespeare,  for  his 
subtlety;  Lucretius,  Juvenal,  Tacitus,  for  obscu- 
rity; John  of  Patmos  and  Dante  Alighieri,  for 
darkness. 

There  are  other  minds,  very  great,  but  less  great, 
who  can  be  reproached  with  none  of  these  faults. 
Hesiod,  ^Esop,  Sophocles,  Euripides,  Plato,  Thu- 
cydides,  Anacreon,  Theocritus,  Titus  Livius,  Sal- 
lust,  Cicero,  Terence,  Virgil,  Horace,  Petrarch, 
Tasso,  Ariosto,  La  Fontaine,  Beaumarchais,  Vol- 
taire, have  neither  exaggeration  nor  darkness,  nor 
obscurity  nor  monstrousness.  What,  then,  do  they 
lack?  Something  the  others  have;  that  some- 
thing is  the  Unknown,  the  Infinite. 

If  Corneille  had  that  "  something,"  he  would  be 
the  equal  of  ^Eschylus.  If  Milton  had  that  "  some- 
thing," he  would  be  the  equal  of  Homer.  If  Mo- 
liere  had  that  "  something,"  he  would  be  the  equal 
of  Shakespeare. 

It  is  the  misfortune  of  Corneille  that  he  muti- 
lated and  contracted  the  old  native  tragedy  in 
obedience  to  fixed  rules.  It  is  the  misfortune  of 
Milton  that,  through  Puritan  melancholy,  he  ex- 
cluded from  his  work  Nature,  the  great  Pan.  It 
is  Moliere's  failing  that,  in  dread  of  Boileau,  he 
quickly  extinguishes  the  luminous  style  of  the 
'  iStourdi,'  that,  for  fear  of  the  priests,  he  writes 
too  few  scenes  like  that  of  the  poor  man  in  *  Don 
Juan.' ! 

To  give  no  occasion  for  attack,  is  a  negative  per- 
fection. It  is  fine  to  be  open  to  attack. 

1  The  scene  referred  to  is  the  second  of  the  third  act  —  TR. 


94  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Indeed,  penetrate  the  meaning  of  those  words, 
placed  as  masks  upon  the  mysterious  qualities  of 
genius,  and  under  obscurity,  subtlety,  and  darkness, 
you  find  depth ;  under  exaggeration,  imagination ; 
under  monstrousness,  grandeur. 

Therefore  in  the  upper  region  of  poetry  and 
thought  there  are  Homer,  Job,  Isaiah,  Ezekiel, 
Lucretius,  Juvenal,  Tacitus,  John  of  Patmos,  Paul 
of  Damascus,  Dante,  Rabelais,  Cervantes,  Shake- 
speare. 

These  supreme  men  of  genius  do  not  form  a 
closed  series.  The  author  of  ALL  adds  to  it  a 
name  when  the  needs  of  progress  require  it. 


BOOK    III. 

ART    AND    SCIENCE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

MANY  people  in  our  day,  especially  stock- 
brokers, and  often  attorneys,  say  and  re- 
peat, "  Poetry  is  passing  away."  It  is  almost  as 
if  they  said :  "  There  are  no  more  roses ;  spring 
has  breathed  its  last;  the  sun  has  lost  the  habit  of 
rising ;  you  may  roam  all  the  fields  of  earth,  and 
not  find  a  butterfly ;  there  is  no  more  moonlight, 
and  the  nightingale  sings  no  more ;  the  lion's  roar 
is  no  longer  heard ;  the  eagle  no  longer  soars ;  the 
Alps  and  the  Pyrenees  have  passed  away;  there 
are  no  more  lovely  girls  and  handsome  young 
men ;  no  one  ever  muses  now  over  a  grave ;  the 
mother  no  longer  loves  her  child ;  heaven  is 
quenched ;  the  human  heart  is  dead." 

Were  it  permitted  us  to  mingle  the  fortuitous 
with  the  eternal,  it  would  be  rather  the  contrary 
which  would  prove  true.  Never  have  the  facul- 
ties of  the  human  mind,  deepened  and  enriched 
by  the  mysterious  ploughing  of  revolution,  been 
profounder  and  loftier. 


96  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  wait  a  little ;  give  time  for  the  realization 
of  that  element  of  social  well-being  now  impend- 
ing,—  gratuitous  and  compulsory  education.  How 
long  will  it  take?  A  quarter  of  a  century.  Im- 
agine the  incalculable  sum  of  intellectual  develop- 
ment implied  in  this  single  expression :  "  Every  one 
can  read."  The  multiplication  of  readers  is  the 
multiplication  of  loaves.  On  the  day  when  Christ 
created  that  symbol,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  print- 
ing. His  miracle  is  this  marvel.  Here  is  a  book : 
with  it  I  will  feed  five  thousand  souls,  a  hundred 
thousand  souls,  a  million  souls — all  humanity.  In 
the  action  of  Christ  bringing  forth  the  loaves,  there 
is  Gutenberg  bringing  forth  books.  One  sower 
heralds  the  other. 

What  has  the  human  race  been  since  the  begin- 
ning of  time?  A  reader.  For  a  long  time  he  has 
spelled;  he  spells  yet:  soon  he  will  read. 

This  child,  six  thousand  years  old,  has  been  at 
school  from  the  first  Where?  In  Nature.  At 
the  beginning,  having  no  other  book,  he  spelled 
the  universe.  He  has  had  his  primary  instruc- 
tion from  the  clouds,  from  the  firmament,  from 
meteors,  flowers,  animals,  forests,  seasons,  phe- 
nomena. The  Ionian  fisherman  studies  the  wave; 
the  Chaldaean  shepherd  spells  the  star.  Then 
came  the  first  books,  —  a  sublime  advance.  The 
book  is  vaster  yet  than  that  grand  scene,  the 
world;  for  to  the  fact  it  adds  the  idea.  If  any- 
thing is  greater  than  God  seen  in  the  sun,  it  is 
God  seen  in  Homer. 

The  universe  without  the  book,  is  science  be- 
coming rudely  outlined;  the  universe  with  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  97 

book,  is  the  ideal  making  its  appearance.  Thence 
an  immediate  modification  in  human  affairs ;  where 
there  had  been  only  force,  power  is  revealed.  The 
application  of  the  ideal  to  actual  facts  produces 
civilization.  Poetry  written  and  sung  begins  its 
work,  —  a  gloriously  effective  deduction  from  the 
poetry  only  seen.  It  is  startling  to  perceive  that 
where  science  was  dreaming,  poetry  acts.  With 
a  touch  of  the  lyre,  the  thinker  dispels  ferocity. 

We  shall  return,  later  on,  to  this  power  of  the 
book;  we  do  not -insist  on  it  at  present:  it  is 
clear  as  light.  Many  writers  then,  few  readers : 
such  has  the  world  been  up  to  this  day.  But  a 
change  is  at  hand.  Compulsory  education  is  a 
recruitment  of  souls  for  the  light.  Henceforth  all 
human  advancement  will  be  accomplished  by  swell- 
ing the  legions  of  those  who  read.  The  diameter 
of  the  moral  and  ideal  good  corresponds  always  to 
the  calibre  of  men's  minds.  In  proportion  to  the 
worth  of  the  brain  is  the  worth  of  the  heart. 

The  book  is  the  tool  of  this  transformation. 
What  humanity  requires,  is  to  be  fed  with  light; 
such  nourishment  is  found  in  reading.  Thence 
the  importance  of  the  school,  everywhere  ade- 
quate to  civilization.  The  human  race  is  at  last 
on  the  point  of  spreading  the  book  wide  open. 
The  immense  human  Bible,  composed  of  all  the 
prophets,  of  all  the  poets,  of  all  the  philosophers, 
is  about  to  shine  and  blaze  under  the  focus  of  that 
enormous  luminous  lens,  —  compulsory  education. 

Humanity  reading  is  humanity  knowing. 

What  nonsense,  then,  it  is  to  cry,  "  Poetry  is  pass- 
ing away  ! "  We  might  say,  on  the  contrary,  poetry 

7 


98  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

is  coming.  For  who  says  poetry,  says  philosophy 
and  light.  Now,  the  reign  of  the  book  is  begin- 
ning; the  school  is  its  purveyor.  Exalt  the 
reader,  you  exalt  the  book.  Not,  certainly,  in 
intrinsic  value,  —  this  remains  what  it  was ;  but  in 
efficient  power:  it  influences  where  it  had  no 
influence;  men's  souls  become  its  subjects  to 
good  ends.  It  was  only  beautiful;  it  becomes 
useful. 

Who  would  venture  to  deny  this?  The  circle  of 
readers  enlarging,  the  circle  of  books  read  will  in- 
crease. Now,  the  desire  to  read  being  a  train  of 
powder,  once  lighted  it  will  not  stop :  and  this, 
combined  with  the  simplification  of  hand-labor  by 
machinery,  and  with  the  increased  leisure  of  man, 
the  body  less  fatigued  leaving  the  mind  freer,  vast 
appetites  for  thought  will  spring  up  in  all  brains ; 
the  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge  and  meditation 
will  become  more  and  more  the  human  preoc- 
cupation ;  low  places  will  be  deserted  for  high 
places,  —  an  ascent  natural  to  every  growing  in- 
telligence ;  people  will  quit  *  Faublas '  to  read 
'  The  Oresteia ;  '  there  they  will  taste  the  noble, 
and,  once  tasting  it,  they  will  never  be  satiated; 
men  will  make  the  beautiful  their  food,  because 
the  refinement  of  minds  augments  in  proportion 
to  their  force;  and  a  day  will  come  when,  the 
fulness  of  civilization  making  itself  manifest, 
those  mountain-tops,  Lucretius,  Dante,  Shake- 
speare, for  ages  almost  deserted,  and  visited  only 
by  the  select  few,  will  be  crowded  with  intelli- 
geaces  seeking  their  food  upon  the  heights. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  99 


CHAPTER   II. 

THERE  can  be  but  one  law;  the  unity  of  law 
results  from  the  unity  of  essence :  Nature  and  Art 
are  the  two  slopes  of  the  same  fact.  And  in  prin- 
ciple, saving  the  restriction  which  we  shall  indicate 
very  shortly,  the  law  of  one  is  the  law  of  the  other. 
The  angle  of  reflection  equals  the  angle  of  inci- 
dence. All  being  equity  in  the  moral  order,  and 
equilibrium  in  the  material  order,  all  is  equation  in 
the  intellectual  order.  The  binomial,  that  marvel 
adjustable  to  everything,  is  included  in  poetry  no 
less  than  in  algebra.  Nature  plus  humanity,  raised 
to  .the  second  power,  give  Art.  Such  is  the  intel- 
lectual binomial.  Now,  replace  this  A  -f-  B  by  the 
number  proper  to  each  great  artist  and  each  great 
poet,  and  you  will  have,  in  its  multiple  physiog- 
nomy and  in  its  strict  total,  each  of  the  creations 
of  the  human  mind.  What  more  beautiful  than  the 
variety  of  masterpieces  resulting  from  the  unity  of 
law?  Poetry,  like  Science,  has  an  abstract  root. 
Science  produces  from  that  root  masterpieces  of 
metal,  wood,  fire,  or  air,  —  machine,  ship,  locomo- 
tive, aerostat;  Poetry  causes  to  grow  from  it  the 
masterpiece  of  flesh  and  blood,  Iliad,  Song  of 
Songs,  Romancero,  Divine  Comedy,  Macbeth. 
Nothing  so  starts  and  prolongs  the  thrill  felt  by 
the  thinker  as  those  mysterious  exfoliations  of 
abstraction  into  reality  in  the  double  region 
(the  one  positive,  the  other  infinite)  of  human 


100  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

thought,  —  a  region  double,  and  nevertheless  one : 
the  infinite  is  an  exactitude.  The  profound  word 
"  number"  is  at  the  base  of  man's  thought;  it  is,  to 
our  intelligence,  elemental ;  it  signifies  harmony  as 
well  as  mathematics.  Number  reveals  itself  to  Art 
by  rhythm,  which  is  the  beating  of  the  heart  of 
the  Infinite.  In  rhythm,  the  law  of  order,  God  is 
felt.  A  verse  is  numerous,  like  a  crowd ;  its  feet 
march  with  the  cadenced  step  of  a  legion.  Without 
number,  no  science ;  without  number,  no  poetry. 
The  strophe,  the  epic,  the  drama,  the  riotous  pal- 
pitation of  man,  the  bursting  forth  of  love,  the 
irradiation  of  the  imagination,  the  lightning-cloud 
of  passion,  all  are  lorded  over  by  this  mysterious 
word  "  number,"  even  as  are  geometry  and  arith- 
metic. Ajax,  Hector,  Hecuba,  the  seven  chiefs 
before  Thebes,  QEdipus,  Ugolino,  Messalina,  Lear 
and  Priam,  Romeo,  Desdemona,  Richard  III., 
Pantagruel,  the  Cid,  Alceste,  all  belong  to  it,  as 
well  as  conic  sections  and  the  differential  and 
integral  calculus.  It  starts  from  "two  and  two 
make  four,"  and  ascends  to  the  region  where  the 
lightning  sits. 

Yet  between  Art  and  Science  let  us  note  a  radi- 
cal difference.  Science  is  perfectible ;  Art,  not. 

Why? 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAR^. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AMONG  human  things,  and  inasmuch  as  it  is  a 
human  thing,  Art  is  a  strange  exception. 

The  beauty  of  everything  here  below  lies  in  the 
power  of  reaching  perfection.  Everything  is  en- 
dowed with  this  property.  To  increase,  to  aug- 
ment, to  win  strength,  to  make  some  gain,  some 
advance,  to  be  worth  more  to-day  than  yesterday : 
this  is  at  once  glory  and  life.  The  beauty  of  Art 
lies  in  not  being  susceptible  of  improvement. 

Let  us  insist  on  these  essential  ideas,  already 
touched  upon  in  some  of  the  preceding  pages. 

A  masterpiece  exists  once  for  all.  The  first 
poet  who  arrives,  arrives  at  the  summit.  You 
shall  ascend  after  him,  as  high,  not  higher.  Ah ! 
your  name  is  Dante?  Very  well;  but  he  who  sits 
yonder  is  named  Homer ! 

Progress,  its  goal  incessantly  changing,  its  stages 
constantly  renewed,  has  a  shifting  horizon.  Not 
so  the  ideal. 

Now,  progress  is  the  motive-power  of  Science ; 
the  ideal  is  the  generator  of  Art. 

Thus  is  explained  why  perfection  is  the  charac- 
teristic of  Science,  and  not  of  Art. 

A  savant  may  outshine  a  savant ;  a  poet  never 
throws  a  poet  into  the  shade. 

Art  progresses  after  its  own  fashion,  it  shifts  its 
ground,  like  Science ;  but  its  successive  creations, 
containing  the  unchangeable,  abide  ;  while  the 


SHAKESPEARE. 

admirable  guesses  of  Science,  which  are  and  can 
be  nothing  but  combinations  of  the  contingent, 
obliterate  each  other. 

Science  is  relative ;  Art  definitive.  The  master- 
piece of  to-day  will  be  the  masterpiece  of  to-morrow. 
Does  Shakespeare  change  anything  in  Sophocles? 
Does  Moliere  take  anything  from  Plautus?  Even 
when  he  borrows  Amphitryon,  he  does  not  take  it 
from  him.  Does  Figaro  blot  out  Sancho  Panza? 
Does  Cordelia  suppress  Antigone?  No.  Poets  do 
not  climb  over  each  other.  The  one  is  not  the 
stepping-stone  of  the  other.  The  poet  rises  alone, 
without  any  other  lever  than  himself.  He  does 
not  tread  his  equal  under  foot.  The  new-comers 
respect  their  elders.  They  succeed,  they  do  not 
replace  each  other.  The  beautiful  does  not  drive 
out  the  beautiful.  Neither  wolves  nor  master- 
pieces devour  each  other. 

Saint-Simon  says  (I  quote  from  memory) : 
"  There  was  through  the  whole  winter  but  one  cry 
of  admiration  for  M.  de  Cambray's  book;  when 
suddenly  appeared  M.  de  Meaux's  book,  which 
devoured  it."  If  Fenelon's  book  had  been  Saint- 
Simon's,  the  book  of  Bossuet  would  not  have 
devoured  it. 

Shakespeare  is  not  above  Dante,  Moliere  is  not 
above  Aristophanes,  Calderon  is  not  above  Euripi- 
des ;  the  Divine  Comedy  is  not  above  Genesis,  the 
Romancero  is  not  above  the  Odyssey;  Sirius  is 
not  above  Arcturus.  Sublimity  is  equality. 

The  human  mind  is  the  infinite  possible.  The 
master-works,  immense  worlds,  are  generated  with- 
in it  unceasingly,  and  abide  there  forever.  No 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 03 

crowding  of  one  against  the  other ;  no  recoil.  The 
occlusions,  when  there  are  any,  are  but  apparent, 
and  quickly  cease.  The  expanse  of  the  boundless 
admits  all  creations. 

Art,  taken  as  art,  and  in  itself,  goes  neither  for- 
ward nor  backward.  The  transformations  of 
poetry  are  but  the  undulations  of  the  beautiful, 
useful  to  human  movement.  Human  movement  is 
another  side  of  the  question,  a  side  that  we  cer- 
tainly do  not  overlook,  and  that  we  shall  examine 
farther  on.  Art  is  not  susceptible  of  intrinsic 
progress.  From  Phidias  to  Rembrandt,  there  is 
movement,  but  not  progress.  The  frescos  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel  take  absolutely  nothing  from  the 
metopes  of  the  Parthenon.  Retrace  your  steps  as 
far  as  you  like,  —  from  the  palace  of  Versailles  to 
Heidelberg  Castle,  from  Heidelberg  Castle  to  Notre 
Dame  of  Paris,  from  Notre  Dame  of  Paris  to  the 
Alhambra,  from  the  Alhambra  to  St.  Sophia,  from 
St.  Sophia  to  the  Colosseum,  from  the  Colosseum 
to  the  Propylaea,  from  the  Propylaea  to  the  Pyra- 
mids ;  you  may  go  backward  in  centuries,  you  do 
not  go  backward  in  art.  The  Pyramids  and  the 
Iliad  remain  in  the  foreground. 

Masterpieces  have  a  level,  the  same  for  all,  the 
absolute. 

The  absolute  once  reached,  all  is  said.  That 
cannot  be  excelled.  The  eye  can  bear  but  a 
certain  quantity  of  dazzling  light. 

Thence  comes  the  assurance  of  poets.  They 
lean  upon  the  future  with  a  lofty  grace.  "  Exegi 
monumentum,"  says  Horace;  and  on  that  occa- 
sion he  derides  bronze.  "  Plaudite  cives,"  says 


104  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Plautus.  Corneille,  at  sixty-five  years,  wins  the 
love  (a  tradition  in  the  Escoubleau  family)  of  the 
very  young  Marquise  de  Contades,  by  promising 
to  send  her  name  down  to  posterity :  — 

"  Lady,  to  that  future  race 

In  whose  clay  I  '11  have  some  credit, 
You  '11  be  known  as  fair  of  face 
But  because  my  verse  has  said  it."1 

In  the  poet  and  in  the  artist  there  is  something 
of  the  infinite.  It  is  this  ingredient,  the  infinite, 
which  gives  to  this  kind  of  genius  an  irreducible 
grandeur. 

This  infinite  element  in  art  is  independent  of 
progress.  It  may  have,  and  it  certainly  has,  duties 
to  fulfil  toward  progress ;  but  it  is  not  dependent 
upon  it.  It  is  dependent  upon  none  of  the  more 
perfect  processes  of  the  future,  upon  no  transfor- 
mation of  language,  upon  no  death  or  birth  of 
idioms.  It  has  within  itself  the  incommensurable 
and  the  innumerable;  it  can  be  subdued  by  no 
rivalry;  it  is  as  pure,  as  complete,  as  sidereal,  as 
divine,  in  the  heart  of  barbarism  as  in  the  heart  of 
civilization.  It  is  the  beautiful,  having  the  infi- 
nite variety  of  genius,  but  always  equal  to  itself, 
always  supreme. 

Such  is  the  law,  scarcely  known,  of  Art. 

1  "  Chez  cette  race  nouvelle, 
Ou  j'aurai  quelque  credit, 
Vous  ne  passerez  pour  belle 
Qu'autant  que  je  1'aurai  dit." 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  105 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SCIENCE  is  different.  The  relative,  which  gov- 
erns it,  leaves  its  impression;  and  these  successive 
stamps  of  the  relative,  more  and  more  resembling 
the  real,  constitute  the  changing  certainty  of  man. 

In  Science,  certain  things  have  been  masterpieces 
which  are  so  no  more.  The  hydraulic  machine  of 
Marly  was  a  masterpiece. 

Science  seeks  perpetual  motion.  She  has  found 
it :  it  is  Science  herself. 

Science  is  continually  changing  in  the  benefit 
she  confers. 

In  Science,  all  tends  to  stir,  to  change,  to  form 
fresh  surfaces.  All  denies,  destroys,  creates,  re- 
places all.  What  was  ground  yesterday  is  put 
into  the  hopper  again  to-day.  The  colossal 
machine,  Science,  never  rests.  It  is  never  satis- 
fied; it  is  insatiable  for  improvement,  of  which 
the  absolute  knows  nothing.  Vaccination  is  called 
in  question,  the  lightning-rod  is  called  in  question. 
Jenner  may  have  erred,  Franklin  may  have  been 
mistaken ;  let  us  search  again.  This  agitation  is 
noble.  Science  is  restless  around  man;  she  has 
her  own  reasons.  Science  plays  in  progress  the 
part  of  utility.  Let  us  reverence  this  superb 
handmaiden. 

Science  makes  discoveries ;  Art  composes  works. 
Science  is  an  acquirement  of  man;  Science  is  a 


106  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

ladder :  one  savant  mounts  above  his  fellow.  Poe- 
try is  a  soaring  flight. 

Do  you  want  examples?  They  abound.  Here 
is  one,  the  first  which  comes  to  mind. 

Jacob  Metzu  (scientifically  Metius)  discovers  the 
telescope  by  chance,  as  Newton  discovered  gravita- 
tion, and  Christopher  Columbus,  America.  Let 
us  open  a  parenthesis :  there  is  no  chance  in  the 
creation  of  '  The  Oresteia '  or  of  *  Paradise  Lost.' 
A  masterpiece  is  the  offspring  of  will.  After  Metzu 
comes  Galileo,  who  improves  the  discovery  of 
Metzu ;  then  Kepler,  who  improves  on  the  im- 
provement of  Galileo ;  then  Descartes,  who,  al- 
though going  somewhat  astray  in  taking  a  concave 
glass  for  eyepiece  instead  of  a  convex  one,  makes 
fruitful  the  improvement  of  Kepler;  then  the  Ca- 
puchin Reita,  who  rectifies  the  reversing  of  objects ; 
then  Huyghens,  who  makes  a  great  step  by  plac- 
ing the  two  convex  glasses  at  the  focus  of  the 
objective;  and  in  less  than  fifty  years,  from  1610 
to  1659,  during  the  short  interval  which  separates 
the  '  Nuncius  Sidereus  '  of  Galileo  from  the  '  Oculus 
Eliae  et  Enoch '  of  Father  Reita,  behold  the  origi- 
nal inventor,  Metzu,  obliterated.  And  it  is  con- 
stantly the  same  in  science. 

Vegetius  was  count  of  Constantinople ;  but  that 
did  not  prevent  his  tactics  being  forgotten,  —  for- 
gotten like  the  strategy  of  Polybius,  forgotten  like 
the  strategy  of  Folard.  The  pig's-head  of  the  pha- 
lanx and  the  pointed  order  of  the  legion  reappeared 
for  a  moment,  two  hundred  years  ago,  in  the  wedge 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus ;  but  in  our  days,  when 
there  are  no  more  pikemen,  as  in  the  fourth  cen- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

tury,  nor  lansquenets,  as  in  the  seventeenth,  the 
ponderous  triangular  attack,  which  was  formerly 
the  basis  of  all  tactics,  is  replaced  by  a  swarm  of 
zouaves  charging  with  the  bayonet.  Some  day, 
sooner  perhaps  than  people  think,  the  bayonet 
charge  will  itself  be  superseded  by  peace,  —  at  first 
European,  by-and-by  universal ;  and  then  the  whole 
military  science  will  vanish  away.  For  that  science, 
improvement  lies  in  disappearance. 

Science  goes  on  unceasingly  erasing  itself,  — 
fruitful  erasures !  Who  knows  now  what  is  the 
Homceomeria  of  Anaximenes,  which  perhaps  be- 
longs really  to  Anaxagoras?  Cosmography  is 
notably  amended  since  the  time  when  this  same 
Anaxagoras  told  Pericles  that  the  sun  was  almost 
as  large  as  the  Peloponnesus.  Many  planets,  and 
satellites  of  planets,  have  been  discovered  since  the 
four  stars  of  Medicis.  Entomology  has  made  some 
advance  since  the  time  when  it  was  asserted  that 
the  scarabee  was  something  of  a  god  and  a  cousin 
to  the  sun  —  first,  on  account  of  the  thirty  toes 
on  its  feet,  which  correspond  to  the  thirty  days  of 
the  solar  month,  secondly,  because  the  scarabee 
is  without  a  female,  like  the  sun  —  and  the  time 
when  Saint  Clement  of  Alexandria,  outbidding  Plu- 
tarch, made  the  remark  that  the  scarabee,  like  the 
sun,  passes  six  months  on  the  earth,  and  six  months 
under  it.  Would  you  verify  this?  Refer  to  the 
'  Stromata/  paragraph  iv.  Scholasticism  itself,  chi- 
merical as  it  is,  gives  up  the  '  Holy  Meadow '  of 
Moschus,  laughs  at  the  '  Holy  Ladder '  of  John 
Climacus,  and  is  ashamed  of  the  century  in  which 
Saint  Bernard,  adding  fuel  to  the  pyre  which  the 


IO8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Viscounts  of  Campania  wished  to  put  out,  called 
Arnaldo  de  Brescia  "  a  man  with  the  dove's  head 
and  the  scorpion's  tail."  The  Cardinal  Virtues  are 
no  longer  the  law  in  anthropology.  The  Steyardes 
of  the  great  Arnauld  are  decayed.  However  un- 
certain is  meteorology,  it  is  far  from  discussing 
now,  as  it  did  in  the  second  century,  whether  a  rain 
which  saves  an  army  from  dying  of  thirst  is  due  to 
the  Christian  prayers  of  the  Melitine  legion  or  to  the 
pagan  intervention  of  Jupiter  Pluvius.  The  astrol- 
oger Marcian  Posthumus  was  for  Jupiter ;  Tertul- 
lian  was  for  the  Melitine  legion :  no  one  was  for 
the  cloud  and  the  wind.  Locomotion,  if  we  go 
from  the  antique  chariot  of  Laius  to  the  railway, 
passing  by  \hepatache,  the  track-boat,  the  turgotine, 
the  diligence,  and  the  mail-coach,  has  indeed  made 
some  progress.  The  time  has  gone  by  for  the  fa- 
mous journey  from  Dijon  to  Paris,  lasting  a  month ; 
and  we  could  not  understand  to-day  the  amazement 
of  Henry  IV.,  asking  of  Joseph  Scaliger :  "  Is  it 
true,  Monsieur  1'Escale,  that  you  have  been  from 
Paris  to  Dijon  without  relieving  your  bowels?" 
Micrography  is  now  far  beyond  Leuwenhoeck,  who 
was  himself  far  beyond  Swammerdam.  Look  at 
the  point  at  which  spermatology  and  ovology  have 
already  arrived,  and  recall  Mariana  reproaching  Ar- 
naud  de  Villeneuve  (who  discovered  alcohol  and 
the  oil  of  turpentine)  with  the  strange  crime  of 
having  attempted  human  generation  in  a  pumpkin. 
Grand-Jean  de  Pouchy,  the  not  over-credulous  life- 
secretary  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences  a  hundred 
years  ago,  would  have  shaken  his  head  if  any  one 
had  told  him  that  from  the  solar  spectrum  one 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 09 

would  pass  to  the  igneous  spectrum,  then  to  the 
stellar  spectrum,  and  that  by  aid  of  the  spectrum 
of  flames  and  of  the  spectrum  of  stars  would  be 
discovered  an  entirely  new  method  of  grouping  the 
heavenly  bodies  and  what  might  be  called  the 
chemical  constellations.  Orffyreus,  who  destroyed 
his  machine  rather  than  allow  the  Landgrave  of 
Hesse  to  see  inside  it,  —  Orffyreus,  so  admired  by 
S'Gravesande,  the  author  of  the  *  Matheseos  Uni- 
versalis  Elementa/ — would  be  laughed  at  by  our 
mechanicians.  A  country  horse-doctor  would  not 
inflict  on  horses  the  remedy  with  which  Galen 
treated  the  indigestions  of  Marcus  Aurelius.  What 
is  the  opinion  of  the  eminent  specialists  of  our 
times,  Desmarres  at  the  head  of  them,  respecting 
the  learned  discoveries  of  the  seventeenth  century 
by  the  Bishop  of  Titiopolis  concerning  the  nasal 
chambers?  The  mummies  have  got  on ;  M.  Gannal 
makes  them  differently,  if  not  better,  than  the  Tari- 
cheutes,  the  Paraschistes,  and  the  Cholchytes  made 
them  in  the  days  of  Herodotus,  —  the  first  by 
washing  the  body,  the  second  by  opening  it,  and 
the  third  by  embalming.  Five  hundred  years  be- 
fore Jesus  Christ,  it  was  perfectly  scientific,  when 
a  king  of  Mesopotamia  had  a  daughter  possessed 
of  the  devil,  to  send  to  Thebes  for  a  god  to  cure 
her.  It  is  not  exactly  our  way  of  treating  epilepsy. 
In  the  same  way  we  have  given  up  expecting  the 
kings  of  France  to  cure  scrofula. 

In  371,  under  Valens,  son  of  Gratian  the  rope- 
maker,  the  judges  summoned  to  the  bar  a  table 
accused  of  sorcery.  This  table  had  an  accomplice 
named  Hilarius.  Hilarius  confessed  the  crime. 


1 10  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Ammianus  Marcellinus  has  preserved  for  us  his 
confession,  received  by  Zosimus,  count  and  fiscal 
advocate.  "  Construximus,  magnifici  judices,  ad 
cortinae  similitudinem  Delphicae  infaustam  hanc 
mensulam  quam  videtis;  movimus  tandem."  Hi- 
larius  was  beheaded.  Who  was  his  accuser  ?  A 
learned  geometrician  and  magician,  the  same  who 
advised  Valens  to  decapitate  all  those  whose  names 
began  with  Theod.  To-day  you  may  call  yourself 
Theodore,  and  even  make  a  table  tip,  without  the 
fear  of  a  geometrician  causing  your  head  to  be 
cut  off. 

One  would  very  much  astonish  Solon  the  son  of 
Execestidas,  Zeno  the  Stoic,  Antipater,  Eudoxus, 
Lysis  of  Tarentum,  Cebes,  Menedemus,  Plato,  Epi- 
curus, Aristotle,  and  Epimenides,  if  one  were  to 
say  to  Solon  that  it  is  not  the  moon  which  regu- 
lates the  year ;  to  Zeno,  that  it  is  not  proved  that 
the  soul  is  divided  into  eight  parts ;  to  Antipater, 
that  the  heaven  is  not  formed  of  five  circles;  to 
Eudoxus,  that  it  is  not  certain  that,  between  the 
Egyptians  embalming  the  dead,  the  Romans  burn- 
ing them,  and  the  Paeonians  throwing  them  into 
ponds,  the  Paeonians  are  those  who  are  right  ;  to 
Lysis  of  Tarentum,  that  it  is  not  correct  that  the 
sight  is  a  hot  vapor ;  to  Cebes,  that  it  is  false  that 
the  principle  of  the  elements  is  the  oblong  tri- 
angle and  the  isosceles  triangle  ;  to  Menedemus, 
that  it  is  not  true  that,  in  order  to  know  the  secret 
bad  intentions  of  men,  it  suffices  to  stick  on  one's 
head  an  Arcadian  hat  decorated  with  the  twelve 
signs  of  the  zodiac ;  to  Plato,  that  sea-water  does 
not  cure  all  diseases ;  to  Epicurus,  that  matter  is 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 1 1 

infinitely  divisible ;  to  Aristotle,  that  the  fifth  ele- 
ment has  not  an  orbicular  movement,  for  the  reason 
that  there  is  no  fifth  element;  to  Epimenides,  that 
the  plague  cannot  be  infallibly  got  rid  of  by  letting 
black  and  white  sheep  go  at  random,  and  sacrificing 
to  unknown  gods  in  the  places  where  the  sheep 
happen  to  stop. 

If  you  should  try  to  hint  to  Pythagoras  how 
improbable  it  is  that  he  should  have  been  wounded 
at  the  siege  of  Troy  —  he,  Pythagoras  —  by  Men- 
elaus,  two  hundred  and  seven  years  before  his 
birth,  he  would  reply  that  the  fact  is  incontestable, 
and  that  it  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  he  perfectly 
recognizes,  as  having  already  seen  it,  the  shield  of 
Menelaus  suspended  under  the  statue  of  Apollo 
at  Branchidse,  although  entirely  rotted  away,  ex- 
cept the  ivory  face ;  that  at  the  siege  of  Troy  his 
own  name  was  Euphorbus,  and  that  before  being 
Euphorbus  he  was  ^Ethalides,  son  of  Mercury,  and 
that  after  having  been  Euphorbus  he  was  Her- 
motimus,  then  Pyrrhus,  fisherman  at  Delos,  then 
Pythagoras  ;  that  it  is  all  evident  and  clear, — as 
clear  as  that  he  was  present  the  same  day  and  the 
same  minute  at  Metapontum  and  at  Crotona,  as 
evident  as  that  by  writing  with  blood  on  a  mirror 
exposed  to  the  moon  one  may  see  in  the  moon 
what  one  wrote  on  the  mirror ;  and  lastly,  that  he 
is  Pythagoras,  living  at  Metapontum,  in  the  Street 
of  the  Muses,  the  inventor  of  the  multiplication- 
table  and  of  the  square  of  the  hypothenuse,  the 
greatest  of  mathematicians,  the  father  of  exact 
science ;  and  that  as  for  you,  you  are  an  imbecile. 

Chrysippus    of  Tarsus,   who    lived    about    the 


112  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

hundred  and  thirtieth  olympiad,  forms  an  era  in 
science.  This  philosopher  (the  same  who  died — 
actually  died  —  of  laughter  caused  by  seeing  a  don- 
key eat  figs  out  of  a  silver  basin)  had  studied 
everything,  gone  to  the  bottom  of  everything,  and 
had  written  seven  hundred  and  five  volumes,  of 
which  three  hundred  and  eleven  were  of  dialectics, 
without  having  dedicated  a  single  one  to  a  king,  — 
a  fact  which  astounds  Diogenes  Laertius.  He  con- 
densed in  his  brain  all  human  knowledge.  His 
contemporaries  named  him  "  Light."  Chrysippus 
signifying  "  golden  horse,"  they  said  that  he  had 
got  detached  from  the  chariot  of  the  sun.  He 
had  taken  for  device  "  TO  ME."  He  knew  innu- 
merable things ;  among  others,  these,  —  the  earth 
is  flat ;  the  universe  is  round  and  limited ;  the  best 
food  for  man  is  human  flesh ;  the  community  of 
wives  is  the  basis  of  social  order;  the  father  ought 
to  espouse  his  daughter;  there  is  a  word  which 
kills  the  serpent,  a  word  which  tames  the  bear,  a 
word  which  arrests  the  flight  of  eagles,  and  a  word 
which  drives  the  cattle  from  the  bean-field ;  by 
pronouncing  from  hour  to  hour  the  three  names 
of  the  Egyptian  Trinity,  Amon- Mouth- Khons,  An- 
dron  of  Argos  contrived  to  cross  the  deserts  of 
Libya  without  drinking;  coffins  ought  not  to  be 
made  of  cypress  wood,  the  sceptre  of  Jupiter  being 
made  of  that  wood  ;  Themistoclea,  priestess  of 
Delphi,  had  given  birth  to  children,  yet  remained 
a  virgin ;  the  just  alone  having  authority  to  swear, 
Jupiter  very  properly  receives  the  name  of  "  The 
Swearer;  "  the  phoenix  of  Arabia  and  the  moths 
live  in  the  fire ;  the  earth  is  carried  by  the  air  as 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 1 3 

by  a  car;  the  sun  drinks  from  the  ocean,  and  the 
moon  from  the  rivers.  For  these  reasons  the  Athe- 
nians raised  a  statue  to  him  on  the  Ceramicus, 
with  this  inscription  :  "  To  Chrysippus,  who  knew 
everything." 

At  very  nearly  the  same  time  Sophocles  wrote 
'GEdipus  Rex.' 

And  Aristotle  believed  in  the  story  about  An- 
dron  of  Argos,  and  Plato  in  the  social  principle  of 
the  community  of  wives,  and  Gorgisippus  in  the 
earth's  being  flat,  and  Epicurus  admitted  as  a  fact 
that  the  earth  was  supported  by  the  air,  and  Her- 
modamantes  that  magic  words  mastered  the  ox 
and  the  eagle  and  the  bear  and  the  serpent,  and 
Echecrates  believed  in  the  immaculate  maternity 
of  Themistoclea,  and  Pythagoras  in  Jupiter's  scep- 
tre made  of  cypress  wood,  and  Posidonius  in  the 
ocean  affording  drink  to  the  sun  and  the  rivers 
quenching  the  thirst  of  the  moon,  and  Pyrrho  in 
the  moths  living  in  fire. 

Except  in  this  one  particular,  Pyrrho  was  a 
sceptic.  He  made  up  for  his  belief  in  that  by 
doubting  everything  else. 

Such  is  the  long  groping  course  of  Science. 
Cuvier  was  mistaken  yesterday,  Lagrange  the  day 
before  yesterday;  Leibnitz  before  Lagrange,  Gas- 
sendi  before  Leibnitz,  Cardan  before  Gassendi, 
Cornelius  Agrippa  before  Cardan,  Averroes,  before 
Agrippa,  Plotinus  before  Averroes,  Artemidorus 
Daldian  before  Plotinus,  Posidonius  before  Ar- 
temidorus, Democritus  before  Posidonius,  Em- 
pedocles  before  Democritus,  Carneades  before 
Empedocles,  Plato  before  Carneades,  Pherecydes 

8 


1 14  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAXE. 

before  Plato,  Pittacus  before  Pherecydes,  Thales 
before  Pittacus ;  and  before  Thales,  Zoroaster,  and 
before  Zoroaster,  Sanchoniathon,  and  before  San- 
choniathon,  Hermes :  Hermes,  which  signifies 
science,  as  Orpheus  signifies  art.  O  wonderful 
marvel,  this  mount  swarming  with  dreams  which 
engender  the  real !  O  sacred  errors,  slow,  blind, 
and  sainted  mothers  of  truth ! 

Some  savants,  such  as  Kepler,  Euler,  Geofifroy 
St.  Hilaire,  Arago,  have  brought  into  science 
nothing  but  light;  they  are  rare. 

At  times  Science  is  an  obstacle  to  Science ;  the 
savants  give  way  to  scruples,  and  cavil  at  study. 
Pliny  is  scandalized  at  Hipparchus;  Hipparchus, 
with  the  aid  of  an  imperfect  astrolabe,  tries  to 
count  the  stars  and  to  name  them,  —  "  A  deed  evil 
in  the  sight  of  God,"  says  Pliny  (Ausus  rem  Deo 
improbam). 

To  count  the  stars  is  to  commit  a  sin  toward 
God.  This  accusation,  started  by  Pliny  against 
Hipparchus,  is  continued  by  the  Inquisition 
against  Campanella. 

Science  is  the  asymptote  of  truth ;  it  approaches 
unceasingly,  and  never  touches.  Nevertheless,  it 
has  every  kind  of  greatness.  It  has  will,  precision, 
enthusiasm,  profound  attention,  penetration,  shrewd- 
ness, strength,  patience  in  concatenation,  permanent 
watchfulness  of  phenomena,  the  ardor  of  progress, 
and  even  fits  of  bravery.  Witness  La  Perouse  ; 
witness  Pilastre  des  Rosiers  ;  witness  Sir  John 
Franklin  ;  witness  Jacquemont ;  witness  Living- 
stone; witness  Mazet;  witness,  at  this  very  hour, 
Nadar. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 15 

But  Science  is  series.  It  proceeds  by  proofs 
superposed  one  above  the  other,  whose  obscure 
stratification  rises  slowly  to  the  level  of  Truth. 

Art  has  nothing  like  it.  Art  is  not  successive. 
All  Art  is  ensemble. 

Let  us  sum  up  these  few  pages. 

Hippocrates  is  outrun,  Archimedes  is  outrun, 
Aratus  is  outrun,  Avicennus  is  outrun,  Paracelsus 
is  outrun,  Nicholas  Flamel  is  outrun,  Ambroise 
Pare"  is  outrun,  Vesalius  is  outrun,  Copernicus  is 
outrun,  Galileo  is  outrun,  Newton  is  outrun,  Clair- 
aut  is  outrun,  Lavoisier  is  outrun,  Montgolfier  is 
outrun,  Laplace  is  outrun.  Pindar  is  not,  Phidias 
is  not 

Pascal  the  savant  is  outrun;  Pascal  the  writer 
is  not. 

We  no  longer  teach  the  astronomy  of  Ptolemy, 
the  geography  of  Strabo,  the  climatology  of 
Cleostratus,  the  zoology  of  Pliny,  the  algebra  of 
Diophantus,  the  medicine  of  Tribunus,  the  surgery 
of  Ronsil,  the  dialectics  of  Sphcerus,  the  myology 
of  Steno,  the  uranology  of  Tatius,  the  stenography 
of  Trithemius,  the  pisciculture  of  Sebastien  de 
Medicis,  the  arithmetic  of  Stifels,  the  geometry  of 
Tartaglia,  the  chronology  of  Scaliger,  the  meteor- 
ology of  Stoffler,  the  anatomy  of  Gassendi,  the 
pathology  of  Fernel,  the  jurisprudence  of  Robert 
Barmne,  the  agronomy  of  Quesnay,  the  hydrog- 
raphy of  Bouguer,  the  navigation  of  Bourde  de 
Villehuet,  the  ballistics  of  Gribeauval,  the  veter- 
inary practice  of  Garsault,  the  architectonics  of 
Desgodets,  the  botany  of  Tournefort,  the  scho- 
lasticism of  Abelard,  the  politics  of  Plato,  the 


1 1 6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

mechanics  of  Aristotle,  the  physics  of  Descartes, 
the  theology  of  Stillingfleet.  We  taught  yesterday, 
we  teach  to-day,  we  shall  teach  to-morrow,  we 
shall  teach  forever,  the  "  Sing,  goddess,  the  wrath 
of  Achilles." 

Poetry  lives  a  potential  life.  The  sciences  may 
extend  its  sphere,  not  increase  its  power.  Homer 
had  but  four  winds  for  his  tempests ;  Virgil  who 
has  twelve,  Dante  who  has  twenty-four,  Milton  who 
has  thirty-two,  do  not  make  their  storms  grander. 

And  it  is  probable  that  the  tempests  of  Orpheus 
were  as  beautiful  as  those  of  Homer,  although 
Orpheus  had,  to  raise  the  waves,  but  two  winds, 
the  Phcenicias  and  the  Aparctias  ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  south  wind  and  the  north  wind,  —  often  con- 
founded, by  the  way,  with  the  Argestes,  the  west 
wind  of  summer,  and  the  Libs,  the  west  wind  of 
winter. 

Religions  die  away,  and  in  dying  bequeath  a 
great  artist  to  other  religions  coming  after  them. 
Serpio  makes  for  the  Venus  Aversative  of  Athens 
a  vase  which  the  Holy  Virgin  accepts  from  Venus, 
and  which  serves  to-day  as  a  baptismal  urn  at 
Notre  Dame  of  Gae'ta. 

0  eternity  of  Art ! 

A  man,  a  corpse,  a  shade  from  the  depth  of  the 
past,  stretching  a  hand  across  the  centuries,  lays 
hold  of  you. 

1  remember  one  day  of  my  youth,  at  Romorantin, 
in  a  hut  we  had  there,  with  its  vine-trellis  through 
which  the  air  and  light  sifted  in,  that  I  espied  a 
book  upon  a  shelf,  the  only  book  there  was  in  the 
house,  —  Lucretius,  De  Rerum  Natura.     My  pro- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  \\J 

fessors  of  rhetoric  had  spoken  very  ill  of  it,  — 
a  circumstance  which  recommended  it  to  me. 
I  opened  the  book.  It  must  have  been  at  that 
moment  about  noonday.  I  happened  on  these 
powerful  and  serene  verses  : l  "  Religion  does  not 
consist  in  turning  unceasingly  toward  the  veiled 
stone,  nor  in  approaching  all  the  altars,  nor  in 
throwing  one's  self  prostrate  on  the  ground,  nor  in 
raising  the  hands  before  the  habitations  of  gods, 
nor  in  deluging  the  temples  with  the  blood  of 
beasts,  nor  in  heaping  vows  upon  vows;  but  in 
beholding  all  with  a  peaceful  soul."  I  stopped  in 
thought;  then  I  began  to  read  again.  Some 
moments  afterward  I  could  see  nothing,  hear 
nothing;  I  was  immersed  in  the  poet.  At  the 
dinner-hour,  I  made  a  sign  that  I  was  not  hungry ; 
and  at  sunset,  when  the  flocks  were  returning  to 
their  folds,  I  was  still  in  the  same  place,  reading 
the  wonderful  book ;  and  by  my  side,  my  white- 
haired  father,  indulgent  to  my  prolonged  reading, 
was  seated  on  the  door-sill  of  the  low  room  where 
his  sword  hung  on  a  nail,  and  was  gently  calling 
the  sheep,  which  came  one  after  another  to  eat  a 
little  salt  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

1  Nee  pietas  ulla  est,  velatum  saepe  videri 
Vertier  ad  lapidem,  atque  omnes  accedere  ad  aras, 
Nee  procumbere  humi  prostratum,  et  pandere  palmas 
Ante  deum  delubra,  neque  aras  sanguine  multo 
Spargere  quadrupedum,  nee  votis  nectere  vota ; 
Sed  mage  placata  posse  omnia  mente  tueri. 


1 1 8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

POETRY  cannot  grow  less.  Why?  Because  it 
cannot  grow  greater. 

Those  words,  so  often  used,  even  by  the  let- 
tered, "  decadence,"  "  renascence,"  show  to  what 
an  extent  the  essence  of  Art  is  unknown.  Super- 
ficial intellects,  easily  becoming  pedantic,  take  for 
renascence  or  decadence  some  effects  of  juxta- 
position, some  optical  mirage,  some  event  in  the 
history  of  a  language,  some  ebb  and  flow  of  ideas, 
all  the  vast  movement  of  creation  and  thought,  the 
result  of  which  is  universal  Art.  This  movement 
is  the  very  work  of  the  Infinite  passing  through 
the  human  brain. 

Phenomena  are  seen  only  from  the  culminating 
point,  and  poetry  thus  viewed  is  immanent.  There 
is  neither  rise  nor  decline  in  Art.  Human  genius 
is  always  at  its  full;  all  the  rain  of  heaven  adds 
not  a  drop  of  water  to  the  ocean.  A  tide  is  an 
illusion ;  water  ebbs  on  one  shore,  only  to  rise  on 
another.  Oscillations  are  taken  for  diminutions. 
To  say  "  there  will  be  no  more  poets,"  is  to  say 
"  there  will  never  be  flood-tide  again." 

Poetry  is  elemental.  It  is  irreducible,  incorrup- 
tible, and  refractory  to  manipulation.  Like  the 
sea,  it  says  on  each  occasion  all  it  has  to  say; 
then  it  begins  anew  with  a  tranquil  majesty,  and 
with  the  inexhaustible  variety  which  belongs  only 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 19 

to  unity.  This  diversity  in  what  seems  monoto- 
nous is  the  marvel  of  immensity. 

Wave  upon  wave,  billow  after  billow,  foam  behind 
foam,  movement,  and  again  movement.  The  Iliad 
is  moving  away,  the  Romancero  comes ;  the  Bible 
sinks,  the  Koran  surges  up ;  after  the  aquilon 
Pindar  comes  the  hurricane  Dante.  Does  ever- 
lasting poetry  repeat  itself?  No.  It  is  the  same, 
and  it  is  different;  the  same  breath,  a  different 
sound. 

Do  you  take  the  Cid  for  a  plagiarist  of  Ajax? 
Do  you  take  Charlemagne  for  a  copier  of  Aga- 
memnon? "There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun." 
"  Your  novelty  is  the  repetition  of  the  old,"  etc. 
Oh,  the  strange  process  of  criticism !  Then  Art  is 
but  a  series  of  counterfeits  !  Thersites  has  a  thief, 
—  Falstaff.  Orestes  has  an  ape,  —  Hamlet.  The 
Hippogriff  is  the  jay  of  Pegasus.  All  these  poets  ! 
A  crew  of  cheats !  They  pillage  each  other,  and 
there  's  an  end.  Inspiration  is  involved  with  swin- 
dling. Cervantes  plunders  Apuleius,  Alceste  cheats 
Timon  of  Athens.  The  Smynthian  Wood  is  the 
Forest  of  Bondy.  Out  of  whose  pocket  was  Shake- 
speare seen  to  draw  his  hand?  Out  of  the  pocket 
of  ^Eschylus. 

No  !  neither  decadence,  nor  renascence,  nor 
plagiarism,  nor  repetition,  nor  imitation.  Identity 
of  heart,  difference  of  spirit;  that  is  all.  Each 
great  artist,  as  we  have  already  said,  stamps  Art 
anew  in  his  own  image.  Hamlet  is  Orestes  in  the 
image  of  Shakespeare  ;  Figaro  is  Scapin  in  the 
image  of  Beaumarchais ;  Grangousier  is  Silenus  in 
the  image  of  Rabelais. 


I2O  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

With  the  new  poet  everything  begins  anew,  and 
at  the  same  time  nothing  is  interrupted.  Each 
new  genius  is  an  abyss.  Nevertheless,  tradition 
exists.  Tradition  from  abyss  to  abyss,  such  is  — 
in  Art,  as  in  the  firmament  —  the  mystery;  and 
men  of  genius  communicate  by  their  effluence,  like 
the  stars.  What  have  they  in  common?  Nothing. 
Everything. 

From  the  pit  that  is  called  Ezekiel  to  the  preci- 
pice that  is  called  Juvenal,  there  is  no  interruption 
of  continuity  for  the  thinker.  Lean  over  this  anath- 
ema, or  over  that  satire,  and  the  same  vertigo  is 
whirling  around  both.  The  Apocalypse  is  reflected 
from  the  Polar  Sea  of  Ice,  and  you  have  that  aurora 
borealis,  the  Nibelungen.  The  Edda  replies  to  the 
Vedas. 

Hence  this,  —  our  starting-point,  to  which  we 
return,  —  Art  is  not  perfectible. 

No  possible  decline  for  poetry,  nor  any  possible 
improvement.  We  lose  our  time  when  we  say: 
Nescio  quid  majtts  nascitur  Iliade.  Art  is  subject 
neither  to  diminution  nor  to  enlargement.  Art 
has  its  seasons,  its  clouds,  its  eclipses,  —  even  its 
stains,  which  are  perhaps  splendors;  its  interpo- 
sitions of  sudden  opacity,  for  which  it  is  not  re- 
sponsible: but  in  the  end  it  brings  light  into  the 
human  soul  always  with  the  same  intensity.  It  re- 
mains the  same  furnace,  emitting  the  same  auroral 
glow.  Homer  does  not  grow  cold. 

Let  us  insist,  moreover,  upon  this,  inasmuch  as 
the  rivalry  of  intelligences  is  the  life  of  the  beauti- 
ful :  O  poets !  the  first  rank  is  ever  free.  Let  us 
remove  everything  which  may  disconcert  daring 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 2 1 

minds  and  break  their  wings.  Art  is  a  species  of 
valor.  To  deny  that  men  of  genius  yet  to  come 
may  be  the  peers  of  men  of  genius  of  the  past, 
would  be  to  deny  the  ever-working  power  of  God. 

Yes,  and  often  do  we  return,  and  shall  return 
again,  to  this  needed  encouragement.  Stimulation 
is  almost  creation.  Yes,  those  men  of  genius  who 
cannot  be  surpassed  may  be  equalled. 

How? 

By  being  different. 


BOOK     IV. 

THE  ANCIENT   SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  ancient  Shakespeare  is  ^Eschylus.     Let  us 
return  to  ^schylus.     He  is  the  grandsire  of 
the   stage.      This   book   would   be    incomplete    if 
^Eschylus  had  not  his  separate  place  in  it. 

A  man  whom  we  do  not  know  how  to  class 
in  his  own  century,  so  little  does  he  belong  to  it, 
being  at  the  same  time  so  much  behind  it  and  so 
much  in  advance  of  it,  the  Marquis  de  Mirabeau, 
—  that  ugly  customer  as  a  philanthropist,  but  a 
very  rare  thinker  after  all,  —  had  a  book-case,  at 
the  two  corners  of  which  he  had  caused  a  dog  and 
a  she- goat  to  be  carved,  in  remembrance  of  Socra- 
tes, who  swore  by  the  dog,  and  of  Zeno,  who  swore 
by  the  goat.  His  library  presented  this  peculiarity : 
on  one  side  there  were  Hesiod,  Sophocles,  Euripides, 
Plato,  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Pindar,  Theocritus, 
Anacreon,  Theophrastus,  Demosthenes,  Plutarch, 
Cicero,  Titus  Livius,  Seneca,  Persius,  Lucan, 
Terence,  Horace,  Ovid,  Propertius,  Tibullus, 
Virgil;  and  underneath  could  be  read,  engraved 
in  letters  of  gold:  "AMO."  On  the  other  side 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  123 

stood  ^Eschylus  alone,  and  underneath  this  word : 
"  TIMED." 

jEschylus  in  reality  is  formidable.  He  cannot 
be  approached  without  trembling.  He  has  magni- 
tude and  mystery.  Barbarous,  extravagant,  em- 
phatic, antithetical,  bombastic,  absurd, — such  is 
the  judgment  passed  on  him  by  the  official  rhetoric 
of  the  present  day.  This  rhetoric  will  be  changed. 
./Eschylus  is  one  of  those  men  whom  superficial 
criticism  scorTs  at  or  disdains,  but  whom  the  true 
critic  approaches  with  a  sort  of  sacred  fear.  The 
fear  of  genius  is  the  beginning  of  taste. 

In  the  true  critic  there  is  always  a  poet,  be  it 
but  in  the  latent  state. 

Whoever  does  not  understand  ^Eschylus  is  irre- 
mediably commonplace.  ^Eschylus  is  the  touch- 
stone of  the  intelligence. 

The  drama  is  a  strange  form  of  art.  Its  diameter 
measures  from  'The  Seven  against  Thebes'  to 
'  The  Philosopher  Without  Knowing  it/  and  from 
Brid'oison  to  QEdipus.  Thyestes  forms  part  of  it; 
Turcaret  also.  If  you  wish  to  define  it,  put  into 
your  definition  Electra  and  Marton. 

The  drama  is  disconcerting;  it  baffles  the  weak. 
This  comes  from  its  ubiquity.  The  drama  has 
every  horizon ;  you  may  then  imagine  its  capacity. 
The  drama  has  been  capable  of  absorbing  the  epic ; 
and  the  result  is  that  marvellous  literary  novelty, 
which  is  at  the  same  time  a  social  power, — the 
romance. 

The  romance  is  bronze,  an  amalgamation  of  the 
epic,  lyric,  and  dramatic.  '  Don  Quixote  '  is  iliad, 
ode,  and  comedy. 


124  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Such  is  the  expansion  of  which  the  drama  is 
capable. 

The  drama  is  the  vastest  reservoir  of  art,  spacious 
enough  for  both  God  and  Satan :  witness  Job. 

From  the  view-point  of  absolute  art,  the  charac- 
teristic of  the  epic  poem  is  grandeur ;  the  charac- 
teristic of  the  drama,  vastness.  The  vast  differs 
from  the  great  in  this :  that  it  excludes,  if  it 
chooses,  dimension ;  that  "  it  is  beyond  measure," 
as  the  common  saying  is ;  and  that  it  can,  without 
losing  beauty,  lose  proportion.  It  is  harmonious 
like  the  Milky  Way.  It  is  by  vastness  that  the 
drama  begins,  four  thousand  years  ago,  in  Job, 
whom  we  have  just  recalled,  and,  two  thousand  five 
hundred  years  ago,  in  ^Eschylus ;  it  is  by  vastness 
that  it  continues  in  Shakespeare.  What  person- 
ages does  ^Eschylus  take?  Volcanoes:  one  of  his 
lost  tragedies  is  called  'y£tna;f  then  the  moun- 
tains :  Caucasus  with  Prometheus ;  then  the  sea  : 
the  Ocean  on  its  dragon,  and  the  waves,  the 
Oceanides ;  then  the  vast  Orient :  '  The  Persians ; ' 
then  the  bottomless  darkness:  'The  Eumenides.' 
^Eschylus  proves  the  man  by  the  giant.  In 
Shakespeare  the  drama  approaches  nearer  to 
humanity,  but  remains  colossal.  Macbeth  seems 
a  polar  Atrides.  You  see  that  the  drama  re- 
veals Nature,  then  reveals  the  soul;  and  there  is 
no  limit  to  this  horizon.  The  drama  is  life, 
and  life  is  everything.  The  epic  poem  can 
be  only  great ;  the  drama  is  constrained  to  be 
vast. 

This  vastness  pervades  ./Eschylus  and  Shake- 
speare throughout. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  12$ 

The  vast,  in  ^Eschylus,  is  a  will.  It  is  also 
a  temperament.  ^Eschylus  invents  the  buskin, 
which  makes  the  man  taller,  and  the  mask,  which 
increases  the  voice.  His  metaphors  are  enormous. 
He  calles  Xerxes  "  the  man  with  the  dragon  eyes." 
The  sea,  which  is  a  plain  for  so  many  poets,  is  for 
yEschylus  "a  forest"  (aXcro?).  These  magnifying 
figures,  peculiar  to  the  highest  poets,  and  to  them 
only,  have  the  basal  truth  which  springs  from 
imaginative  musing.  ^Eschylus  excites  you  to  the 
very  brink  of  convulsion.  His  tragical  effects  are 
like  blows  struck  at  the  spectators.  When  the 
furies  of  ^Eschylus  make  their  appearance,  preg- 
nant women  miscarry.  Pollux,  the  lexicographer, 
affirms  that  at  the  sight  of  those  serpent  faces  and 
of  those  flickering  torches,  children  were  seized 
with  fits  of  epilepsy,  of  which  they  died.  That 
is  evidently  "  going  beyond  the  mark."  Even  in 
the  grace  of  ^Eschylus,  that  strange  and  sovereign 
grace  of  which  we  have  spoken,  there  is  something 
Cyclopean.  It  is  Polyphemus  smiling.  At  times 
the  smile  is  formidable,  and  seems  to  hide  an 
obscure  rage.  Put,  by  way  of  example,  these  two 
poets,  Homer  and  ^schylus,  in  the  presence  of 
Helen.  Homer  is  at  once  conquered,  and  ad- 
mires ;  his  admiration  is  forgiveness.  ^Eschylus 
is  moved,  but  remains  grave.  He  calls  Helen 
"  fatal  flower ;  "  then  he  adds,  "  soul  as  calm  as 
the  tranquil  sea."  One  day  Shakespeare  will  say, 
"  false  as  the  wave."  1 


i  < 


Othello,'  V.  ii.  1.  134:  "  She  was  false  as  water."  — TR. 


126  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  theatre  is  a  crucible  of  civilization.  It  is  a 
place  of  human  communion.  All  its  phases  need 
to  be  studied.  It  is  in  the  theatre  that  the  public 
soul  is  formed. 

We  have  just  seen  what  the  theatre  was  in  the 
time  of  Shakespeare  and  Moli&re;  shall  we  see 
what  it  was  in  the  time  of  ^Eschylus? 

Let  us  go  to  see  this  play. 

It  is  no  longer  the  cart  of  Thespis ;  it  is  no 
longer  the  scaffold  of  Susarion ;  it  is  no  longer  the 
wooden  circus  of  Chcerilus.  Athens,  forecasting 
the  coming  of  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripi- 
des, has  built  theatres  of  stone.  No  roof,  the  sky 
for  a  ceiling,  the  day  for  lighting,  a  long  platform 
of  stone  pierced  with  doors  and  staircases  and 
secured  to  a  wall,  the  actors  and  the  chorus  go- 
ing and  coming  upon  this  platform,  which  is  the 
logeum,  and  performing  the  play;  in  the  centre, 
where  in  our  day  is  the  prompter's  box,  a  small 
altar  to  Bacchus,  the  thymele;  in  front  of  the 
platform  a  vast  riemicycle  of  stone  steps,  on  which 
five  or  six  thousand  men  are  sitting  pell-mell: 
such  is  the  laboratory.  There  it  is  that  the  swarm- 
ing crowd  of  the  Piraeus  come  to  turn  Athenians ; 
there  it  is  that  the  multitude  becomes  the  pub- 
lic, in  anticipation  of  the  day  when  the  public 
shall  become  the  people.  The  multitude  is  in  fact 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  \  2  7 

there,  —  the  whole  multitude,  including  the  women, 
the  children,  and  the  slaves,  and  Plato,  who  knits 
his  brows. 

If  it  is  a  fete-day,  if  we  are  at  the  Panathenaea, 
at  the  Lenaea,  or  at  the  great  Dionysia,  the  magis- 
trates form  part  of  the  audience ;  the  proedri,  the 
epistati,  and  the  prytanes  sit  in  their  place  of 
honor.  If  the  trilogy  is  to  be  a  tetralogy ;  if  the 
representation  is  to  conclude  by  a  piece  with 
satyrs;  if  the  fauns,  the  aegipans,  the  maenades, 
the  goat-footed,  and  the  evantes  are  to  come  at 
the  end  to  perform  their  pranks;  if  among  the 
comedians  (who  are  almost  priests,  and  are  called 
"  Bacchus's  men")  is  to  appear  the  favorite  actor 
who  excels  in  the  two  modes  of  declamation,  in 
paralogy  as  well  as  paracatology  ;  if  the  poet 
is  sufficiently  liked  by  his  rivals  so  that  the 
public  may  expect  to  see  some  celebrated  men, 
Eupolis,  Cratinus,  or  even  Aristophanes,  figure 
in  the  chorus  ("  Eupolis  atque  Cratinus  Ari- 
stophanesque  poetae,"  as  Horace  will  one  day 
say)  ;  if  a  play  with  women  is  performed,  even 
the  old  '  Alcestis '  of  Thespis,  —  the  whole  place 
is  full,  there  is  a  crowd.  The  crowd  is  already 
to  ^Eschylus  what,  later  on,  as  the  prologue  of 
1  The  Bacchides  '  remarks,  it  will  be  to  Plautus, 
— "  a  swarm  of  men  on  seats,  coughing,  spit- 
ting, sneezing,  making  grimaces  and  noises  with 
the  mouth  (ore  concrepario),  touching  foreheads, 
and  talking  of  their  affairs : "  what  a  crowd  is 
to-day. 

Students  scrawl  with  charcoal  on  the  wall  —  now 
in  token  of  admiration,  now  in  irony  —  some  well- 


128  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

known  verses  ;  for  instance,  the  singular  iambic  of 
Phrynichus  in  a  single  word,  — 

"  Archaiomelesidonophrunicherata,"  l 

of  which  the  famous  Alexandrine,  in  two  words,  of 
one  of  our  tragic  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
was  but  a  poor  imitation,  — 

"  Metamorphoserait  Nabuchodonosor."2 

There  are  not  only  the  students  to  make  a  row, 
there  are  the  old  men.  Trust  to  the  old  men  of 
the  'Wasps'  of  Aristophanes  for  a  noise.  Two 
schools  are  represented,  —  on  one  side  Thespis, 
Susarion,  Pratinas  of  Phlius,  Epigenes  of  Sicyon, 
Theomis,  Auleas,  Chcerilus,  Phrynichus,  Minos 
himself;  on  the  other,  young  ^schylus.  ^Eschy- 
lus  is  twenty-eight  years  old.  He  gives  his  trilogy 
of  the  '  Promethei,  '  —  '  Prometheus  the  Fire- 
bearer,'  '  Prometheus  Bound,'  *  Prometheus  Deliv- 
ered;' followed  by  some  piece  with  satyrs,  —  'The 
Argians,'  perhaps,  of  which  Macrobius  has  pre- 
served a  fragment  for  us.  The  ancient  quarrel 
between  youth  and  old  age  breaks  out,  —  gray 
beards  against  black  hair.  They  discuss,  they  dis- 
pute :  the  old  men  are  for  the  old  school  ;  the 
young  are  for  ^Eschylus.  The  young  defend 
y£schylus  against  Thespis,  as  they  will  defend 
Corneille  against  Gamier. 

The  old  men  are  indignant.  Listen  to  the  Nes- 
tors  grumbling.  What  is  tragedy?  It  is  the  song 
of  the  he  goat.  Where  is  the  he-goat  in  this  '  Pro- 


2  "He  would  transmogrify  Nebuchadnezzar."  — 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  129 

metheus  Bound?'  Art  is  in  its  decline.  And  they 
repeat  the  celebrated  objection :  Quid  pro  Bac- 
cJw?  (What  is  there  for  Bacchus?)  Those  of 
severest  taste,  the  purists,  do  not  even  accept 
Thespis,  and  remind  each  other  that  Solon  had 
raised  his  stick  against  Thespis,  calling  him  "  liar/' 
for  the  sole  reason  that  he  had  detached  and  iso- 
lated in  a  play  an  episode  in  the  life  of  Bacchus,  — 
the  story  of  Pentheus.  They  hate  this  innovator, 
^Eschylus.  They  blame  all  these  inventions,  the 
end  of  which  is  to  bring  about  a  closer  connection 
between  the  drama  and  Nature,  —  the  use  of  the 
anapaest  for  the  chorus,  of  the  iambus  for  the  dia- 
logue, and  of  the  trochee  for  passion,  —  in  the 
same  way  that,  later  on,  Shakespeare  was  blamed 
for  passing  from  poetry  to  prose,  and  the  theatre 
of  the  nineteenth  century  for  what  was  termed 
"  broken  verse."  These  are  indeed  unendurable 
novelties.  And  then,  the  flute  plays  too  high,  and 
the  tetrachord  plays  too  low ;  and  where  is  now  the 
ancient  sacred  division  of  tragedies  into  monodies, 
stasimes,  and  exodes?  Thespis  put  on  the  stage 
but  one  speaking  actor;  here  is  ^Eschylus  putting 
two.  Soon  we  shall  have  three.  (Sophocles,  in- 
deed, was  to  come.)  Where  will  they  stop?  These 
are  impieties.  And  how  does  this  ^Eschylus  dare 
to  call  Jupiter  "the  prytanis  of  the  Immortals?" 
Jupiter  was  a  god,  and  he  is  no  longer  anything 
but  a  magistrate.  What  are  we  coming  to?  The 
thymele,  the  ancient  altar  of  sacrifice,  is  now  a  seat 
for  the  corypheus  !  The  chorus  ought  to  limit  it- 
self to  executing  the  strophe,  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
turn  to  the  right;  then  the  antistrophe,  —  that  is 

9 


130  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

to  say,  the  turn  to  the  left;  then  the  epode,  —  that 
is  to  say,  repose.  But  what  means  the  entrance  of 
the  chorus  in  a  winged  chariot?  What  is  the  gad- 
fly that  pursues  lo?  Why  does  the  Ocean  come 
mounted  on  a  dragon?  This  is  show,  not  poetry. 
Where  is  the  antique  simplicity?  This  spectacle 
is  puerile.  Your  ^Eschylus  is  but  a  painter,  a  deco- 
rator, a  maker  of  brawls,  a  charlatan,  a  machinist. 
All  for  the  eyes,  nothing  for  the  mind.  To  the 
fire  with  all  these  pieces,  and  let  us  content  our- 
selves with  a  recitation  of  the  ancient  paeans  of 
Tynnichus !  Moreover,  it  is  Chcerilus  who,  by  his 
tetralogy  of  the  Curetes,  started  the  evil.  What 
are  the  Curetes,  if  you  please?  Gods  forging  metal. 
Well,  then,  he  had  simply  to  show  their  five  fami- 
lies at  work  upon  the  stage,  the  Dactyli  finding  the 
metal,  the  Cabiri  inventing  the  forge,  the  Coryban- 
tes  forging  the  sword  and  the  ploughshare,  the 
Curetes  making  the  shield,  and  the  Telchines  chas- 
ing the  jewelry.  It  was  sufficiently  interesting  in 
that  form ;  but  by  allowing  poets  to  blend  in  it  the 
adventure  of  Plexippus  and  Toxeus,  all  is  ruined. 
How  can  you  expect  society  to  resist  such  excess? 
It  is  abominable.  ^Eschylus  ought  to  be  sum- 
moned before  the  court,  and  sentenced  to  drink 
hemlock,  like  that  old  wretch  Socrates.  You  will 
see  that  after  all  he  will  only  be  exiled.  Every- 
thing is  degenerating. 

And  the  young  men  burst  into  laughter.  They 
criticise  as  well,  but  in  another  fashion.  What  an 
old  brute  is  that  Solon  !  It  is  he  who  has  insti- 
tuted the  eponymous  archonship.  What  do  they 
want  with  an  archon  giving  his  name  to  the  year? 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  131 

Hoot  the  eponymous  archon  who  has  lately  caused 
a  poet  to  be  elected  and  crowned  by  ten  generals, 
instead  of  by  ten  men  of  the  people.  It  is  true  that 
one  of  the  generals  was  Cimon,  —  an  extenuating 
circumstance  in  the  eyes  of  some,  for  Cimon  has 
beaten  the  Phoenicians ;  aggravating  in  the  eyes  of 
others,  for  it  is  this  very  Cimon  who,  in  order  to 
get  out  of  prison  for  debt,  sold  his  sister  Elphinia, 
and  his  wife  into  the  bargain,  to  Callias.  If  ^Es- 
chylus  is  a  reckless  person  and  deserves  to  be  cited 
before  the  Areopagus,  has  not  Phrynichus  also 
been  judged  and  condemned  for  having  shown  on 
the  stage,  in  '  The  Taking  of  Miletus/  the  Greeks 
beaten  by  the  Persians?  When  will  poets  be  al- 
lowed to  suit  their  own  fancy?  Hurrah  for  the 
liberty  of  Pericles,  and  down  with  the  censure  of 
Solon !  And  then  what  is  this  law  that  has  just 
been  promulgated,  by  which  the  chorus  is  reduced 
from  fifty  to  fifteen?  And  how  are  they  to  play 
'The  Danai'des'?  and  won't  there  be  chuckling  at 
the  line  of  yEschylus,  — "  Egyptus,  the  father  of 
fifty  sons?  "  The  fifty  will  be  fifteen.  These  magis- 
trates are  idiots.  Quarrel,  uproar  all  around.  One 
prefers  Phrynichus,  another  prefers  ^Eschylus,  an- 
other prefers  wine  with  honey  and  benzoin.  The 
speaking-trumpets  of  the  actors  compete  as  well 
as  they  can  with  this  deafening  noise,  through 
which  is  heard  from  time  to  time  the  shrill  cry 
of  the  public  vendors  of  phallus  and  of  the  water- 
bearers.  Such  is  the  Athenian  uproar.  During 
all  this  time  the  play  is  going  on.  It  is  the 
work  of  a  living  man.  There  is  good  cause  for 
the  commotion.  Later  on,  after  the  death  of 


132  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

^Eschylus,  or  after  he  has  been  exiled,  there  will 
be  silence.  It  is  right  to  be  silent  before  a  god. 
"^Equum  est" —  it  is  Plautus  who  speaks  —  "vos 
deo  facere  silentum." 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  GENIUS  is  an  accused  man.  As  long  as  JEs- 
chylus  lived,  his  life  was  a  strife.  His  genius  was 
contested,  then  he  was  persecuted :  a  natural  pro- 
gression. According  to  Athenian  practice,  his 
private  life  was  unveiled ;  he  was  traduced,  sland- 
ered. A  woman  whom  he  had  loved,  Planesia, 
sister  of  Chrysilla,  mistress  of  Pericles,  has  dis- 
honored herself  in  the  eyes  of  posterity  by  the  out- 
rages that  she  publicly  inflicted  on  ^Eschylus. 
Unnatural  amours  were  imputed  to  him ;  for  him, 
as  for  Shakespeare,  a  Lord  Southampton  was 
found.  His  popularity  was  broken  down.  Then 
everything  was  charged  to  him  as  a  crime,  even 
his  kindness  to  young  poets  who  respectfully  of- 
fered to  him  their  first  laurels.  It  is  curious  to 
see  this  reproach  constantly  reappearing.  Pezay 
and  St.  Lambert  repeat  it  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury :  "  Why,  Voltaire,  in  all  thy  notes  to  the  au- 
thors who  address  thee  with  complimentary  verses, 
dost  thou  reply  with  excessive  praises  ?  " 1 

1  "  Pourquoi,  Voltaire,  a  ces  auteurs 
Qui  t'adressent  des  vers  flatteurs, 
Repondre,  en  toutes  tes  missives, 
Par  des  louanges  excessives  ? " 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  133 

^Eschylus,  while  alive,  was  a  kind  of  public  tar- 
get for  all  haters.  Young,  the  ancient  poets,  Tries- 
pis  and  Phrynichus,  were  preferred  to  him;  old, 
the  new  ones,  Sophocles  and  Euripides,  were 
placed  above  him.  At  last  he  was  brought  before 
the  Areopagus,  and  —  according  to  Suidas,  be- 
cause the  theatre  had  fallen  in  during  the  perform- 
ance of  one  of  his  pieces  ;  according  to  y£lian, 
because  he  had  blasphemed,  or,  what  is  the  same 
thing,  had  revealed  the  mysteries  of  Eleusis  —  he 
was  exiled.  He  died  in  exile. 

Then  Lycurgus  the  orator  cried  :  "  We  must  raise 
to  ^schylus  a  statue  of  bronze." 

Athens,  which  had  expelled  the  man,  raised  the 
statue. 

Thus  Shakespeare,  through  death,  entered  into 
oblivion  ;  ^Eschylus  into  glory. 

This  glory,  which  was  to  have  in  the  course  of 
ages  its  phases,  its  eclipses,  its  vanishings,  and  its 
returns,  was  then  dazzling.  Greece  remembered 
Salamis,  where  ^Eschylus  had  fought.  The  Areop- 
agus itself  was  ashamed.  It  felt  that  it  had  been 
ungrateful  toward  the  man  who,  in  '  The  Ores- 
teia,'  had  paid  to  that  tribunal  the  supreme  honor 
of  summoning  before  it  Minerva  and  Apollo.  JEs- 
chylus  became  sacred.  All  the  phratries  had 
his  bust,  wreathed  at  first  with  fillets,  afterward 
crowned  with  laurels.  Aristophanes  made  him 
say,  in  '  The  Frogs,'  "  I  am  dead,  but  my  poetry 
liveth."  In  the  great  Eleusinian  days,  the  herald 
of  the  Areopagus  blew  the  Tyrrhenian  trumpet  in 
honor  of  ^Eschylus.  An  official  copy  of  his  nine- 
ty-seven dramas  was  made  at  the  expense  of  the 


134  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Republic,  and  placed  under  the  special  care  of  the 
recorder  of  Athens.  The  actors  who  played  his 
pieces  were  obliged  to  go  and  collate  their  parts 
with  this  perfect  and  unique  copy.  ^Eschylus 
was  made  a  second  Homer.  ^Eschylus  had,  like 
Homer,  his  rhapsodists,  who  sang  his  verses  at  the 
festivals,  holding  in  their  hands  a  branch  of  myrtle. 
He  had  been  right,  the  great  and  insulted  man, 
to  write  on  his  poems  this  proud  and  mournful 
dedication :  — 

"To  TIME." 

There  was  no  more  said  about  his  blasphemy : 
it  was  enough  that  this  blasphemy  had  caused  him 
to  die  in  exile ;  it  was  as  though  it  had  never  been. 
Besides,  one  does  not  know  where  to  find  the  blas- 
phemy. Palingenius  seeks  it  in  an  '  Asterope,' 
which,  in  our  opinion,  existed  only  in  imagination. 
Musgrave  seeks  it  in  'The  Eumenides.'  Musgrave 
probably  was  right;  for  'The  Eumenides'  being  a 
very  religious  piece,  the  priests  must  have  chosen 
it  for  the  purpose  of  accusing  him  of  impiety. 

Let  us  note  an  odd  coincidence.  The  two  sons 
of  ^Eschylus,  Euphorion  and  Bion,  are  said  to 
have  recast  '  The  Oresteia,'  exactly  as,  two  thou- 
sand three  hundred  years  later,  Davenant,  Shake- 
speare's illegitimate  son,  recast  '  Macbeth.'  But 
in  the  face  of  the  universal  respect  for  ^Eschylus 
after  his  death,  such  impudent  tamperings  were 
impossible;  and  what  is  true  of  Davenant  is  evi- 
dently untrue  of  Bion  and  Euphorion. 

The  renown  of  ^Eschylus  filled  the  world  of 
those  days.  Egypt,  feeling  with  reason  that  he 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  135 

was  a  giant  and  somewhat  Egyptian,  bestowed  on 
him  the  name  of  "  Pimander,"  signifying  "  Superior 
Intelligence."  In  Sicily,  whither  he  had  been 
banished,  and  where  they  sacrificed  he-goats  before 
his  tomb  at  Gela,  he  was  almost  an  Olympian. 
Afterward  he  was  almost  a  prophet  for  the  Chris- 
tians, owing  to  the  prediction  of  Prometheus,  which 
they  thought  to  apply  to  Jesus. 

Strangely  enough,  it  is  this  very  glory  which  has 
wrecked  his  work. 

We  speak  here  of  the  material  wreck  ;  for, 
as  we  have  said,  the  mighty  name  of  ^Eschylus 
survives. 

The  disappearance  of  these  poems  is  indeed  a 
drama,  and  an  extraordinary  drama.  A  king  has 
stupidly  plundered  the  human  mind. 

Let  us  tell  the  story  of  this  larceny. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

HERE  are  the  facts,  —  the  legend,  at  least;  for 
at  such  a  distance,  and  in  such  a  twilight,  history  is 
legendary. 

There  was  a  king  of  Egypt  named  Ptolemy 
Evergetes,  brother-in-law  to  Antiochus  the  god. 

Let  us  mention,  by  the  way,  that  all  these  peo- 
ple were  gods,  —  gods  Soters,  gods  Evergetes, 
gods  Epiphanes,  gods  Philometors,  gods  Philadel- 
phi,  gods  Phllopators.  Translation :  Gods  saviors, 
gods  beneficent,  gods  illustrious,  gods  loving 


1 3 6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

their  mother,  gods  loving  their  brothers,  gods 
loving  their  father.  Cleopatra  was  goddess  Soter. 
The  priests  and  priestesses  of  Ptolemy  Soter  were 
at  Ptolemais.  Ptolemy  VI.  was  called  "  God-love- 
Mother "  (Philometor),  because  he  hated  his 
mother  Cleopatra ;  Ptolemy  IV.  was  "  God-love- 
Father"  (JPhilopator)t  because  he  had  poisoned 
his  father;  Ptolemy  II.  was  "  God-love-Brothers " 
(JPhiladelpkus)t  because  he  had  killed  his  two 
brothers. 

Let  us  return  to  Ptolemy  Evergetes. 

He  was  the  son  of  the  Philadelphus  who  gave 
golden  crowns  to  the  Roman  ambassadors,  the 
same  to  whom  the  pseudo-Aristeus  wrongly  at- 
tributes the  version  of  the  Septuagint.  This 
Philadelphus  had  much  increased  the  library  of 
Alexandria,  which  during  his  lifetime  counted 
two  hundred  thousand  volumes,  and  which  in  the 
sixth  century  attained,  it  is  said,  the  incredible 
number  of  seven  hundred  thousand  manuscripts. 

This  stock  of  human  knowledge,  formed  un- 
der the  eyes  of  Euclid  and  by  the  efforts  of 
Callimachus,  Diodorus  Cronus,  Theodorus  the 
Atheist,  Philetas,  Apollonius,  Aratus,  the  Egyp- 
tian priest  Manetho,  Lycophron,  and  Theocritus, 
had  for  its  first  librarian,  according  to  some 
Zenodotus  of  Ephesus,  according  to  others  De- 
me^rius  of  Phalerum,  to  whom  the  Athenians  had 
raised  two  hundred  and  sixty  statues,  which  they 
took  one  year  to  construct,  and  one  day  to  destroy. 
Now,  this  library  had  no  copy  of  ^Eschylus.  One 
day  the  Greek  Demetrius  said  to  Evergetes, 
"  Pharaoh  has  not  ^Eschylus,"  —  exactly  as,  at 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  137 

a  later  time,  Leidrade,  archbishop  of  Lyons  and 
librarian  of  Charlemagne,  said  to  Charlemagne, 
"  The  Emperor  has  not  Scaeva  Memor." 

Ptolemy  Evergetes,  wishing  to  complete  the 
work  of  Philadelphus  his  father,  resolved  to  give 
^Eschylus  to  the  Alexandrian  library.  He  de- 
clared that  he  would  cause  a  copy  to  be  made. 
He  sent  an  embassy  to  borrow  from  the  Athenians 
the  unique  and  sacred  copy,  under  the  care  of  the 
recorder  of  the  Republic.  Athens,  not  over-prone 
to  lend,  hesitated,  and  demanded  a  security.  The 
King  of  Egypt  offered  fifteen  silver  talents.  Now, 
those  who  wish  to  comprehend  the  value  of  fif- 
teen talents,  have  but  to  know  that  it  was  three 
fourths  of  the  annual  tribute  of  ransom  paid  by 
Judaea  to  Egypt,  which  was  twenty  talents,  and 
weighed  so  heavily  on  the  Jewish  people  that  the 
high-priest  Onias  II.,  founder  of  the  Onian  Temple, 
decided  to  refuse  this  tribute  at  the  risk  of*  a  war. 
Athens  accepted  the  security.  The  fifteen  talents 
were  deposited.  The  complete  copy  of  ^Eschylus 
was  delivered  to  the  King  of  Egypt.  The  King 
gave  up  the  fifteen  talents,  and  kept  the  book. 

Athens,  indignant,  had  some  thought  of  declar- 
ing war  against  Egypt.  To  reconquer  ^Eschylus 
would  be  as  good  as  reconquering  Helen.  To 
repeat  the  Trojan  war,  but  this  time  to  recover 
Homer,  seemed  a  fine  thing.  Yet  time  was 
taken  for  consideration.  Ptolemy  was  powerful. 
He  had  forcibly  taken  back  from  Asia  the  two 
thousand  five  hundred  Egyptian  gods  formerly 
carried  there  by  Cambyses  because  they  were  in 
gold  and  silver.  He  had,  besides,  conquered 


138  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Cilicia  and  Syria  and  all  the  country  from  the 
Euphrates  to  the  Tigris.  With  Athens  it  was  no 
longer  the  day  when  she  had  improvised  a  fleet  of 
two  hundred  ships  against  Artaxerxes.  She  left 
^Eschylus  a  prisoner  in  Egypt. 

A  prisoner-god.  This  time  the  word  "  god  "  is  in 
its  right  place.  They  paid  ^Eschylus  unheard-of 
honors.  The  King  refused,  it  is  said,  to  allow  the 
works  to  be  transcribed,  stupidly  bent  on  posses- 
sing a  unique  copy. 

Particular  care  was  taken  of  this  manuscript 
when  the  library  of  Alexandria,  augmented  by 
the  library  of  Pergamus,  which  Antony  gave  to 
Cleopatra,  was  transferred  to  the  temple  of  Jupiter 
Serapis.  There  it  was  that  Saint  Jerome  came  to 
read,  in  the  Athenian  text,  the  famous  passage  in 
the  '  Prometheus '  prophesying  Christ  :  "  Go  and 
tell  Jupiter  that  nothing  shall  make  me  name  the 
one  who  is  to  dethrone  him." 

Other  doctors  of  the  Church  made,  from  the 
same  copy,  the  same  verification.  For  in  all 
times  orthodox  asseverations  have  been  com- 
bined with  what  have  been  called  the  testimonies 
of  polytheism,  and  great  pains  have  been  taken 
to  make  pagans  say  Christian  things.  "  Teste 
David  cum  Sibylla."  People  came  to  the  Alexan- 
drian library,  as  on  a  pilgrimage,  to  examine  the 
'  Prometheus,'  —  constant  visits  which  perhaps  de- 
ceived the  Emperor  Hadrian,  making  him  write 
to  the  Consul  Servianus :  "  Those  who  worship 
Serapis  are  Christians;  those  who  profess  to  be 
bishops  of  Christ  are  at  the  same  time  devotees 
of  Serapis." 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  139 

Under  the  Roman  dominion,  the  library  of 
Alexandria  belonged  to  the  Emperor.  Egypt 
was  Caesar's  property.  "  Augustus,"  says  Tacitus, 
"  seposuit  ^Egyptum."  It  was  not  every  one  who 
could  travel  there.  Egypt  was  closed.  The 
Roman  knights,  and  even  the  senators,  could  not 
easily  obtain  admittance. 

It  was  during  this  period  that  the  complete 
copy  of  ^Eschylus  was  exposed  to  the  perusal 
of  Timocharis,  Aristarchus,  Athenaeus,  Stobaeus, 
Diodorus  of  Sicily,  Macrobius,  Plotinus,  Jambli- 
chus,  Sopater,  Clement  of  Alexandria,  Nepotian 
of  Africa,  Valerius  Maximus,  Justin  the  Martyr, 
and  even  of  ^Elian,  although  ^Elian  left  Italy  but 
seldom. 

In  the  seventh  century  a  man  entered  Alexandria. 
He  was  mounted  on  a  camel  and  seated  between 
two  sacks,  one  full  of  figs,  the  other  full  of  corn. 
These  two  sacks  were,  with  a  wooden  platter,  all 
that  he  possessed.  This  man  never  seated  himself 
except  on  the  ground.  He  drank  nothing  but 
water,  and  ate  nothing  but  bread.  He  had  con- 
quered half  Asia  and  Africa,  taken  or  burned 
thirty-six  thousand  towns,  villages,  fortresses,  and 
castles,  destroyed  four  thousand  pagan  or  Chris- 
tain  temples,  built  fourteen  hundred  mosques,  con- 
quered Izdeger,  King  of  Persia,  and  Heraclius, 
Emperor  of  the  East;  and  he  called  himself  Omar. 
He  burned  the  library  of  Alexandria. 

Omar  is  for  that  reason  celebrated ;  Louis,  called 
the  Great,  has  not  the  same  celebrity,  —  an  in- 
justice, for  he  burned  the  Rupertine  library  at 
Heidelberg. 


140  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Now,  is  not  this  incident  a  complete  drama? 
It  might  be  entitled, '  ^Eschylus  Lost'  Exposition, 
plot,  and  denouement.  After  Evergetes,  Omar. 
The  action  begins  with  a  robber,  and  ends  with 
an  incendiary. 

Evergetes  —  this  is  his  excuse  —  robbed  from 
the  motive  of  love.  The  admiration  of  a  fool  has 
its  attendant  inconveniences. 

As  for  Omar,  he  is  the  fanatic.  By  the  way,  we 
must  mention  that  strange  historical  rehabilitations 
have  been  attempted  in  our  time.  We  do  not 
speak  of  Nero,  who  is  the  fashion ;  but  an  attempt 
has  been  made  to  exonerate  Omar,  as  well  as  to 
bring  a  verdict  of  "  not  guilty  "  for  Pius  V.  Saint 
Pius  V.  personifies  the  Inquisition ;  to  canonize 
him  was  enough :  why  declare  him  innocent  ? 
We  do  not  lend  ourselves  to  these  attempts  at 
appeal  in  trials  which  have  received  final  judg- 
ment. We  have  no  taste  for  rendering  such  little 
services  to  fanaticism,  whether  it  be  caliph  or 
pope,  whether  it  burn  books  or  men.  Omar  has 
had  many  advocates.  A  certain  class  of  historians 
and  biographical  critics  are  easily  moved  to  tears 
over  the  sabre:  a  victim  of  slander,  this  poor 
sabre !  Imagine,  then,  the  tenderness  that  is  felt 
for  a  scimitar,  —  the  scimitar  being  the  ideal  sabre. 
It  is  better  than  brute,  it  is  Turk.  Omar,  then, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  141 

has  been  cleared  as  far  as  possible.  A  first  fire 
in  the  Bruchion  district,  where  the  Alexandrian 
library  stood,  was  used  as  an  argument  to  prove 
how  easily  such  accidents  happen.  That  fire  was 
the  fault  of  Julius  Csesar,  —  another  sabre  !  Then  a 
second  argument  was  found  in  a  second  conflagra- 
tion, only  partial,  of  the  Serapeum,  in  order  to 
accuse  the  Christians,  the  demagogues  of  those 
days.  If  the  fire  at  the  Serapeum  had  destroyed 
the  Alexandrian  library  in  the  fourth  century, 
Hypatia  would  not  have  been  able,  in  the  fifth 
century,  to  give  in  that  same  library  those  lessons 
in  philosophy  which  caused  her  to  be  murdered 
with  broken  pieces  of  earthen  pots.  Touching 
Omar,  we  are  willing  to  believe  the  Arabs.  Ab- 
dallatif  saw  at  Alexandria,  about  1220,  "a  shaft 
of  the  pillars  supporting  a  cupola," 1  and  said, 
"There  stood  the  library  that  Amroo-Ibn-Al-Aas 
burned  by  permission  of  Omar."  Aboolfaraj,  in 
1260,  relates  in  precise  terms  in  his  *  Dynastic  His- 
tory '  that  by  order  of  Omar  they  took  the  books 
from  the  library,  and  with  them  heated  the  baths 
of  Alexandria  for  six  months.  According  to  Gib- 
bon, there  were  at  Alexandria  four  thousand  baths. 
Ibn-Khaldoon,  in  his  ( Historical  Prolegomena/  re- 
lates another  wanton  destruction,  —  the  annihila- 
tion of  the  library  of  the  Medes  by  Saad,  Omar's 
lieutenant.  Now,  Omar  having  caused  the  burn- 
ing of  the  Median  library  in  Persia  by  Saad,  was 
logical  in  causing  the  destruction  of  the  Egyptian- 


1  The  original  reads:  "la  colonne  des  piliers  supportant  une 
coupole."  —  TR. 


142  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Greek  library  in  Egypt  by  Amroo.  His  lieuten- 
ants have  preserved  his  orders  for  us :  "  If  these 
books  contain  falsehoods,  to  the  fire  with  them ! 
If  they  contain  truths,  these  truths  are  in  the 
Koran  :  to  the  fire  with  them  !  "  In  place  of  the 
Koran,  put  the  Bible,  Veda,  Edda,  Zend-Avesta, 
Toldos-Jeschut,  Talmud,  Gospel,  and  you  have  the 
imperturbable  and  universal  formula  of  all  fanat- 
icisms. This  being  said,  we  do  not  see  any 
reason  to  reverse  the  verdict  of  history ;  we  award 
to  the  Caliph  the  smoke  of  the  seven  hundred 
thousand  volumes  of  Alexandria,  ^Eschylus  in- 
cluded, and  we  maintain  Omar  in  possession  of 
his  conflagration. 

Evergetes,  through  his  wish  for  exclusive  pos- 
session, treating  a  library  as  a  seraglio,  has  robbed 
us  of  ^Eschylus.  Imbecile  contempt  may  have  the 
same  results  as  imbecile  adoration.  Shakespeare 
came  very  near  meeting  the  fate  of  ^Eschylus. 
He  also  has  had  his  conflagration.  Shakespeare 
was  so  little  printed,  printing  existing  so  little  for 
him,  thanks  to  the  stupid  indifference  of  his  im- 
mediate posterity,  that  in  1666  there  was  still  but 
one  edition  of  the  poet  of  Stratford-on-Avon 
(Hemynge  and  Condell's  edition),  three  hundred 
copies  of  which  were  printed.  Shakespeare,  with 
this  obscure  and  pitiful  edition  awaiting  the  public 
in  vain,  was  a  sort  of  poor  but  proud  relative  of 
the  glorious  poets.  These  three  hundred  copies 
were  nearly  all  stored  up  in  London  when  the  Fire 
of  1666  broke  out  It  burned  London,  and  nearly 
burned  Shakespeare.  The  whole  edition  of  He- 
mynge and  Condell  disappeared,  with  the  exception 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  143 

of  the  forty-eight  copies  which  had  been  sold  in 
fifty  years.  Those  forty-eight  purchasers  saved 
from  death  the  works  of  Shakespeare.1 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  disappearance  of  ^Eschylus  !  Extend  this 
catastrophe  hypothetically  to  a  few  more  names, 
and  it  seems  as  though  one  perceived  a  vacuum 
forming  in  the  human  mind. 

The  work  of  ^Eschylus  was,  by  its  extent,  the 
greatest,  certainly,  of  all  antiquity.  By  the  seven 
plays  which  remain  to  us,  we  may  judge  what  that 
universe  was. 

Let  us  point  out  what  '  ^Eschylus  Lost'  imports  : 

Fourteen  trilogies,  — '  The  Promethei/  of  which 
*  Prometheus  Bound  '  formed  a  part ;  '  The  Seven 
Chiefs  against  Thebes/  of  which  there  remains 
one  piece ;  '  The  Dana'fdes/  which  included  '  The 
Suppliants/  written  in  Sicily,  and  in  which  the 
"  Sicilianism  "  of  ^Eschylus  is  traceable ;  '  Lai'us/ 

1  In  addition  to  Hemynge  and  Condell's  edition  (known  as  the 
'First  Folio,  or  Folio  of  1623'),  there  had  been,  before  the  year 
of  the  Great  Fire,  two  editions,  —  the  '  Second  Folio,'  1632,  and  the 
'Third  Folio,'  1663-64.  Besides  these  during  the  poet's  lifetime, 
and  throughout  a  large  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  single 
plays  of  Shakespeare  appeared  in  quarto  form.  See  Dowden's 
'  Primer/  pp.  30-31.  In  the  last  chapter  of  this  useful  little  book 
some  facts  are  given  which  show  that  Shakespeare  was  by  no 
means  so  unknown  and  unpopular  throughout  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  as  Victor  Hugo  would  persuade  us  that  he 
was.  —  TR. 


144  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

which  included  '  CEdipus; '  'Athamas/  which  end- 
ed with  '  The  Isthmiastes ;  '  '  Perseus/  the  node  of 
which  was  '  The  Phorcydes ;  '  *  y£tna/  which  had 
as  prologue  'The  JEtnean  Women;  '  '  Iphigenia/ 
the  denouement  of  which  was  the  tragedy  of  'The 
Priestesses ;  '  '  The  Ethiopid/  the  titles  of  which 
are  nowhere  to  be  found;  *  Pentheus,'  in  which 
were  '  The  Hydrophori '  (Water-carriers)  ;  '  Teu- 
cer,'  which  opened  with  *  The  Judgment  of 
Arms ;  '  '  Niobe/  which  began  with  '  The  Nurses ' 
and  ended  with  '  The  Men  of  the  Train ;  '  a  trilogy 
in  honor  of  Achilles,  'The  Tragic  Iliad,'  composed 
of '  The  Myrmidons,' '  The  Nereids/  and  '  The  Phry- 
gians ;  '  one  in  honor  of  Bacchus,  '  The  Lycurgia/ 
composed  of  '  The  Edons/  '  The  Bassarides/  and 
'  The  Young  Men/ 

These  fourteen  trilogies  alone  give  a  total  of 
fifty-six  plays,  if  we  consider  that  nearly  all  were 
tetralogies ;  that  is  to  say,  quadruple  dramas, 
and  ended  with  a  satyric  after-piece.  Thus  '  The 
Oresteia '  had  as  a  satyric  after-piece,  '  Proteus ; ' 
and  '  The  Seven  Chiefs  against  Thebes '  had  '  The 
Sphinx/ 

Add  to  these  fifty-six  pieces  a  probable  trilogy 
of  '  The  Labdacides ; '  add  the  tragedies  of  '  The 
Egyptians/  *  The  Ransom  of  Hector/  '  Memnon/ 
undoubtedly  connected  with  such  trilogies ;  add 
all  the  satyric  plays,  '  Sisyphus  the  Deserter/ 
'The  Heralds/  'The  Lion/  'The  Argians/  'Amym- 
one/  '  Circe/  '  Cercyon/  '  Glaucus  the  Mariner/ 
—  comedies  in  which  was  found  the  mirth  of  that 
wild  genius. 

That  is  what  we  have  lost 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  145 

Evergetes  and  Omar  have  robbed  us  of  all 
this. 

It  is  difficult  to  fix  precisely  the  total  number 
of  pieces  written  by  yEschylus.  The  statements 
vary.  The  anonymous  biographer  speaks  of 
seventy-five,  Suidas  of  ninety,  Jean  Deslyons  of 
ninety-seven,  Meursius  of  a  hundred.  Meursius 
enumerates  more  than  a  hundred  titles;  but  some 
probably  do  double  service. 

Jean  Deslyons,  doctor  of  the  Sorbonne,  lecturer 
on  divinity  at  Senlis,  author  of  the  '  Discours 
ecclesiastique  contre  le  paganisme  du  Roi  boit,'1 
published  in  the  seventeenth  century  a  work  against 
laying  coffins  one  above  another  in  cemeteries,  in 
which  he  took  for  his  authority  the  twenty-fifth 
canon  of  the  Council  of  Auxerre  :  "  Non  licet 
mortuum  super  mortuum  mitti."  Deslyons,  in  a 
note  added  to  that  work,  —  which  is  now  very 
rare,  and  of  which  we  believe  Charles  Nodier 
possessed  a  copy,  —  quotes  a  passage  from  the 
great  antiquarian  numismatist  of  Venloo,  Hubert 
Goltzius,  in  which,  in  reference  to  embalming, 
Goltzius  mentions  *  The  Egyptians  *  of  ^Eschylus, 
and  '  The  Apotheosis  of  Orpheus,'  —  a  title  omitted 
in  the  enumeration  given  by  Meursius,  Goltzius 
adds  that  *  The  Apotheosis  of  Orpheus '  was  recited 
at  the  mysteries  of  the  Lycomides.2 

This  title,  'The  Apotheosis  of  Orpheus,'  sets 
one  to  thinking.  yEschylus  speaking  of  Orpheus, 
the  Titan  measuring  the  hundred-handed,  the  god 

1  '  Ecclesiastical  Discourse  against  the  Paganism  of  the  King 
drinks.*  (?) 

2  Sit  in  original. 

10 


146  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

interpreting  the  god,  —  what  could  be  nobler, 
and  how  one  would  long  to  read  that  work ! 
Dante  speaking  of  Virgil  and  calling  him  his 
master,  does  not  fill  up  this  gap,  because  Virgil, 
a  noble  poet,  but  without  invention,  is  less  than 
Dante ;  it  is  between  equals,  from  genius  to  genius, 
from  sovereign  to  sovereign,  that  such  homage  is 
splendid.  ^Eschylus  raises  to  Orpheus  a  temple 
of  which  he  might  occupy  the  altar  himself:  this 
is  grand  ! 


CHAPTER   VII. 

AESCHYLUS  is  disproportionate.  There  is  in  him 
something  of  India.  The  wild  majesty  of  his 
stature  recalls  those  vast  poems  of  the  Ganges 
which  stride  through  Art  with  the  steps  of  a  mam- 
moth, and  which  have,  among  the  Iliads  and  the 
Odysseys,  the  appearance  of  hippopotami  among 
lions.  ^Eschylus,  a  thorough  Greek,  is  yet  some- 
thing more  than  a  Greek  ;  he  has  the  Oriental 
incommensurableness. 

Salmasius  declares  that  he  is  full  of  Hebraisms 
and  Syrianisms  :  "  Hebraifsmis  et  Syrianismis." 
/Eschylus  makes  the  Winds  bear  Jupiter's  throne, 
as  the  Bible  makes  the  Cherubim  bear  Jehovah's 
throne,  as  the  Rig- Veda  makes  the  Marouts  bear 
the  throne  of  Indra.  The  Winds,  the  Cherubim,  and 
the  Marouts  are  the  same  beings,  the  Breathings. 
For  the  rest,  Salmasius  is  right.  Plays  upon  words 
so  frequent  in  the  Phoenician  language,  abound  in 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  147 

^Eschylus.  He  plays,  for  instance,  in  reference 
to  Jupiter  and  Europa,  on  the  Phoenician  word 
ilpha,  which  has  the  double  meaning  of  "  ship"  and 
"  bull."  He  loves  that  language  of  Tyre  and  Sidon, 
and  at  times  he  borrows  from  it  the  strange  gleams 
of  his  style;  the  metaphor,  "Xerxes  with  the 
dragon  eyes,"  seems  an  inspiration  from  the 
Ninevite  dialect,  in  which  the  word  draka  meant 
at  the  same  time  "  dragon  "  and  "  clear-sighted." 
He  has  Phoenician  heresies :  his  heifer,  lo,  is 
rather  the  cow,  Isis;  he  believes,  like  the  priests 
of  Sidon,  that  the  temple  of  Delphi  was  built  by 
Apollo  with  a  paste  made  of  wax  and  bees'-wings. 
In  his  exile  in  Sicily  he  goes  often  to  drink  reli- 
giously at  the  fountain  of  Arethusa;  and  never  do 
the  shepherds  who  watch  him  hear  him  mention 
Arethusa  otherwise  than  by  this  mysterious  name, 
Alphaga,  —  an  Assyrian  word  signifying  "  spring 
surrounded  with  willows." 

^Eschylus  is,  in  the  whole  Hellenic  literature, 
the  sole  example  of  the  Athenian  mind  with  a 
mixture  of  Egypt  and  Asia.  These  depths  were 
repugnant  to  the  Greek  intelligence.  Corinth, 
Epidaurus,  QEdepsus,  Gythium,  Chaeroneia,  which 
was  to  be  the  birthplace  of  Plutarch,  Thebes,  where 
Pindar's  house  was,  Mantineia,  where  the  glory  of 
Epaminondas  shone, —  all  these  golden  towns  repu- 
diated the  Unknown,  a  glimpse  of  which  was  seen 
like  a  cloud  behind  the  Caucasus.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  sun  was  Greek.  The  sun,  used  to  the 
Parthenon,  was  not  made  to  enter  the  diluvian 
forests  of  Grand  Tartary,  under  the  thick  mould 
of  gigantic  endogens,  under  the  lofty  ferns  of 


148  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

five  hundred  cubits,  where  swarmed  all  the  first 
dreadful  models  of  Nature,  and  under  whose 
shadows  existed  unknown,  shapeless  cities,  such 
as  that  fabled  Anarodgurro,  the  existence  of  which 
was  denied  until  it  sent  an  embassy  to  Claudius. 
Gagasmira,  Sambulaca,  Maliarpha,  Barygaza,  Ca- 
veripatnam,  Sochoth-Benoth,  Tiglath-Pileser,  Tana- 
Serim,  all  these  almost  hideous  names  affrighted 
Greece  when  they  came  to  be  reported  by  the 
adventurers  on  their  return,  first  by  those  with 
Jason,  then  by  those  of  Alexander.  ^Eschylus 
had  no  such  horror.  He  loved  the  Caucasus.  It 
was  there  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Pro- 
metheus. One  almost  feels  in  reading  ^Eschylus 
that  he  had  haunted  the  vast  primitive  thickets 
now  become  coal-measures,  and  that  he  had 
taken  huge  strides  over  the  roots,  snake-like  and 
half-living,  of  the  ancient  vegetable  monsters, 
^schylus  is  a  kind  of  behemoth  among  the  great 
intelligences. 

Let  us  say,  however,  that  the  affinity  of  Greece 
with  the  East — an  affinity  hated  by  the  Greeks 

—  was  real.     The  letters  of  the  Greek  alphabet  are 
nothing  but  the  letters  of  the  Phoenician  alphabet 
reversed.     ^Eschylus  was  all  the  more  Greek  from 
the  fact  of  his  being  something  of  a  Phoenician. 

This  powerful  mind,  at  times  apparently  shape- 
less, on  account  of  its  very  greatness,  has  the 
Titanic  gayety  and  affability.  He  indulges  in 
quibbles  on  the  names  of  Prometheus,  Polynices, 
Helen,  Apollo,  Ilion,  on  the  cock  and  the  sun, 

—  imitating,  in   this    respect,   Homer,  who    made 
about  the   olive   that  famous   pun   which   caused 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  149 

Diogenes  to  throw  away  his  plate    of  olives  and 
eat  a  tart. 

The  father  of  ^Eschylus,  Euphorion,  was  a  disci- 
ple of  Pythagoras.  The  soul  of  Pythagoras,  that 
philosopher  half  magian  and  half  Brahmin,  seemed 
to  have  entered  through  Euphorion  into  ^Eschylus. 
We  have  already  said  that  in  the  dark  and  myste- 
rious quarrel  between  the  celestial  and  the  terres- 
trial gods,  the  intestine  war  of  paganism,  ^Eschylus 
was  terrestrial.  He  belonged  to  the  faction  of  the 
gods  of  earth.  The  Cyclops  having  worked  for 
Jupiter,  he  rejected  them,  as  we  should  reject  a 
corporation  of  workmen  who  had  betrayed  us,  and 
he  preferred  to  them  the  Cabiri.  He  adored  Ceres. 
"  O  thou,  Ceres,  nurse  of  my  soul !  "  and  Ceres 
is  Demeter,  —  that  is,  Ge-meter,  the  mother-earth. 
Hence  his  veneration  for  Asia.  It  seemed  then  as 
though  the  Earth  was  rather  in  Asia  than  elsewhere. 
Asia  is  in  reality,  compared  with  Europe,  a  kind 
of  block  almost  without  capes  and  gulfs,  and  little 
penetrated  by  the  sea.  The  Minerva  of  ^Eschylus 
says  "Asia  the  Great."  "  The  sacred  soil  of  Asia," 
says  the  chorus  of  the  Oceanides.  In  his  epitaph, 
graven  on  his  tomb  at  Gela  and  written  by  himself, 
yEschylus  attests  "  the  long-haired  Mede."  1  He 
makes  the  chorus  celebrate  "  Susicanes  and  Pega- 
stagon,  born  in  Egypt,  and  the  chief  of  Memphis 
the  sacred  city."  Like  the  Phoenicians,  he  gives 
the  name  "  Oncea"  to  Minerva.  In  '  The  JEtna  ' 

1  The  epitaph  is  translated  by  John  Stuart  Blackie  as  follows  : 

"  Here  ^Eschylus  lies,  from  his  Athenian  home 
Remote,  'neath  Gela's  wheat-producing  loam  ; 
How  brave  in  battle  was  Euphorion' s  son, 
The  long-haired  Mede  can  tell  who  fell  at  Marathon."  —  TR 


150  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

he  celebrates  the  Sicilian  Dioscuri,  the  Palici,  those 
twin  gods  whose  worship,  connected  with  the  local 
worship  of  Vulcan,  had  reached  Asia  through  Sa- 
repta  and  Tyre.  He  calls  them  "the  venerable 
Palici."  Three  of  his  trilogies  are  entitled  'The 
Persians,'  '  The  Ethiopid/  '  The  Egyptians.'  In 
the  geography  of  ^Eschylus,  Egypt,  as  well  as 
Arabia,  was  in  Asia.  Prometheus  says,  "  the  flower 
of  Arabia,  the  hero  of  Caucasus."  ^Eschylus  was 
in  geography  a  notable  specialist.  He  had  a  Gor- 
gonian  city,  Cysthenes,  which  he  placed  in  Asia, 
as  well  as  a  River  Pluto,  rolling  sands  of  gold,  and 
defended  by  men  with  a  single  eye,  —  the  Arimas- 
pians.  The  pirates  to  whom  he  makes  allusion 
somewhere  are,  according  to  all  appearance,  the 
pirates  of  Angria,1  who  inhabited  the  rock  Vizin- 
druk.  He  could  see  distinctly  beyond  the  Pas-du- 
Nil,  in  the  mountains  of  Byblos,  the  source  of  the 
Nile,  still  unknown  to-day.  He  knew  the  precise 
spot  where  Prometheus  had  stolen  the  fire,  and  he 
designated  without  hesitation  Mount  Mosychlus,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Lemnos. 

When  this  geography  ceases  to  be  fanciful,  it  is 
exact  as  an  itinerary.  It  becomes  true,  and  remains 
incommensurable.  There  is  nothing  more  real 
than  that  splendid  transmission,  in  one  night,  of  the 
news  of  the  capture  of  Troy,  by  bonfires  lighted 
one  after  the  other,  and  answering  from  mountain 
to  mountain, — from  Mount  Ida  to  the  promontory 
of  Hermes,  from  the  promontory  of  Hermes  to 
Mount  Athos,  from  Mount  Athos  to  Mount  Ma- 
cispe,  from  Macispe  to  Messapius,  from  Mount 

1  The  original  reads  :  "  les  pirates  angrias."  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  \  5  I 

Messapius  over  the  River  Asopus  to  Mount  Cythe- 
ron,  from  Mount  Cytheron  over  the  morass  of 
Gorgopis  to  Mount  Egiplanctus,  from  Mount  Egi- 
planctus  to  Cape  Saronica  (later  Spireum),  from 
Cape  Saronica  to  Mount  Arachne,  from  Mount 
Arachne  to  Argos.  You  may  follow  on  the  map 
that  train  of  fire  announcing  Agamemnon  to 
Clytemnestra. 

This  bewildering  geography  is  mingled  with  an 
extraordinary  tragedy,  in  which  you  hear  dia- 
logues more  than  human :  Prometheus.  —  "  Alas  !  " 
Mercury.  —  "  This  is  a  word  that  Jupiter  speaks 
not."  And  again,  where  the  Ocean  plays  the  part 
of  a  Geronte :  4<  To  appear  mad,"  says  the  Ocean 
to  Prometheus,  "  is  the  secret  of  the  sage,"  —  a 
saying  as  deep  as  the  sea.  Who  knows  the  mental 
reservations  of  the  tempest?  And  the  Power  ex- 
claims: "There  is  but  one  free  god,  —  Jupiter." 

^Eschylus  has  his  own  geography;  he  has  also 
his  fauna. 

This  fauna,  which  strikes  us  as  fabulous,  is  enig- 
matical rather  than  chimerical.  The  author  of 
these  lines  has  discovered  and  identified,  in  a  glass 
case  of  the  Japanese  Museum  at  the  Hague,  the 
impossible  serpent  of  '  The  Oresteia,'  having  two 
heads  at  its  two  extremities.  There  are,  it  may  be 
added,  in  the  same  case  several  specimens  of  a 
monstrosity  which  would  seem  to  be  of  another 
world,  and  is,  at  all  events,  strange  and  unex- 
plained,—  as,  for  our  part,  we  are  little  disposed 
to  admit  the  odd  hypothesis  of  Japanese  manufac- 
turers of  monsters. 

^Eschylus  at  times  sees  Nature  with  simplifica- 


I  5  2  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

tions  stamped  with  a  mysterious  disdain.  Here 
the  Pythagorean  disappears,  and  the  magian  shows 
himself.  All  beasts  are  the  beast,  ^schylus  seems 
to  see  in  the  animal  kingdom  only  a  dog.  The 
griffin  is  a  "dumb  dog;  "  the  eagle  is  a  "winged 
dog,"  — "  the  winged  dog  of  Jupiter,"  says  Pro- 
metheus. 

We  have  just  used  the  word  "  magian."  In  fact, 
this  poet,  like  Job,  performs  at  times  the  functions 
of  a  priest.  One  would  say  that  he  exercises  over 
Nature,  over  human  creatures,  and  even  over  gods, 
a  kind  of  magianism.  He  upbraids  animals  for 
their  voracity.  A  vulture  which  seizes  a  doe-hare 
with  young,  in  spite  of  its  running,  and  feeds  on  it, 
"  eats  a  whole  race  stopped  in  its  flight."  He  ad- 
dresses the  dust  and  the  smoke :  the  first  he  calls 
"  thirsty  sister  of  mire ;  "  the  other,  "  black  sister 
of  fire."  He  insults  the  dreaded  bay  of  Salmy- 
dessus,  "  stepmother  of  ships."  He  reduces  to 
dwarfish  proportions  the  Greeks  who  took  Troy  by 
treachery :  he  exhibits  them  whelped  by  a  machine 
of  war ;  he  calls  them  "  these  foal  of  a  horse."  As 
for  the  gods,  he  goes  so  far  as  to  incorporate 
Apollo  with  Jupiter.  He  finely  calls  Apollo  "  the 
conscience  of  Jupiter." 

His  bold  familiarity  is  absolute,  —  a  mark  of  sove- 
reignty. He  makes  the  sacrificer  take  Iphigenia 
"as  a  she-goat."  A  queen  who  is  a  faithful  spouse 
is  for  him  "the  good  house-bitch."  As  for  Orestes, 
he  has  seen  him  when  a  babe,  and  he  speaks  of 
him  as  "  wetting  his  swaddling-clothes "  (humec- 
tatio  ex  urina).  He  goes  even  beyond  this  Latin. 
The  expression,  which  we  do  not  repeat  here,  is 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  153 

to  be  found  in  '  The  Litigants.' l  If  you  are  bent 
upon  reading  the  word  which  we  hesitate  to  write, 
apply  to  Racine. 

The  whole  is  vast  and  mournful.  The  profound 
despair  of  fate  is  in  ^Eschylus.  He  portrays  in 
terrible  lines  "  the  impotence  which  chains  down, 
as  in  a  dream,  the  blind  living  creatures."  His 
tragedy  is  nothing  but  the  old  Orphic  dithyramb 
suddenly  bursting  into  tears  and  lamentations  over 
man. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ARISTOPHANES  loved  ^schylus  by  that  law  of 
affinity  which  causes  Marivaux  to  love  Racine. 

Tragedy  and  comedy  are  made  to  understand 
one  another. 

The  same  distracted  and  all-powerful  breath  fills 
^Eschylus  and  Aristophanes.  They  are  the  two 
inspired  wearers  of  the  antique  mask. 

Aristophanes,  who  is  not  yet  finally  judged,  ad- 
hered to  the  Mysteries,  to  Cecropian  poetry,  to 
Eleusis,  to  Dodona,  to  the  Asiatic  twilight,  to  the 
profound  pensive  dream.  This  dream,  whence 
sprang  the  art  of  ^Egina,  was  at  the  threshold  of 
the  Ionian  philosophy  in  Thales  as  well  as  at  the 
threshold  of  the  Italic  philosophy  in  Pythagoras. 
It  was  the  sphinx  guarding  the  entrance. 

This  sphinx  was  a  muse,  —  the  great  pontifical 
and  wanton  muse  of  universal  procreation ;  and  Ari- 

1  '  Les  Plaideurs,'  act  iii.  scene  iii. 


154  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

stophanes  loved  it.  This  sphinx  breathed  trage- 
dy into  yEschylus,  and  comedy  into  Aristophanes. 
It  contained  something  of  Cybele.  The  antique 
sacred  immodesty  is  found  in  Aristophanes.  At 
times  he  shows  Bacchus  foaming  at  the  lips.  He 
comes  from  the  Dionysia,  or  from  the  Ascolia,1  or 
from  the  great  trieterical  Orgy,  and  he  strikes  one 
as  a  raving  maniac  of  the  Mysteries.  His  stag- 
gering verse  recalls  the  Bacchant  hopping  giddily 
upon  air-bladders.  Aristophanes  has  the  sacerdo- 
tal obscenity.  He  is  for  nudity  against  love.  He 
denounces  the  Phaedras  and  the  Sthenobaeas,  and 
he  creates  "  Lysistrata." 

Let  no  one  fail  to  note  that  this  was  religion, 
and  that  a  cynic  was  an  austere  mind.  The 
Gymnosophists  formed  the  point  of  intersection 
between  lewdness  and  thought.  The  he-goat, 
with  its  philosopher's  beard,  belonged  to  that  sect. 
That  dark,  ecstatic,  and  bestial  Oriental  spirit  lives 
still  in  the  santon,  the  dervish,  and  the  fakir. 
Aristophanes,  like  Diogenes,  belonged  to  that 
family.  ^Eschylus  was  related  to  it  by  his  Oriental 
temperament,  but  he  retained  the  tragic  chastity. 

This  mysterious  naturalism  was  the  antique  Ge- 
nius of  Greece.  It  was  called  poetry  and  philo- 
sophy. It  had  under  it  the  group  of  the  seven 
sages,  one  of  whom,  Periander,  was  a  tyrant.  Now, 
a  certain  vulgar  spirit  of  moderation  appeared 
with  Socrates;  it  was  sagacity  clarifying  wis- 
dom. Thales  and  Pythagoras  reduced  to  im- 
mediate truth:  such  was  the  operation,  —  a  sort 

1  "Aschosie"  in  the  original.  The  translator  supposes  the 
"  Ascoliasmus  "  or  "  Ascolia  "  to  be  intended.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  155 

of  filtration,  which,  purifying  and  weakening, 
allowed  the  ancient  divine  doctrine  to  perco- 
late, drop  by  drop,  and  become  human.  These 
simplifications  disgust  fanaticism;  dogmas  object 
to  a  process  of  sifting.  To  ameliorate  a  religion 
is  to  lay  violent  hands  on  it.  Progress,  offering  its 
services  to  Faith,  offends  it.  Faith  is  an  ignorance 
which  professes  to  know,  and  which  in  certain 
cases  does,  perhaps,  know  more  than  Science.  In 
the  face  of  the  lofty  affirmations  of  believers,  So* 
crates  had  an  uncomfortable,  sly  half-smile.  There 
is  in  Socrates  something  of  Voltaire.  Socrates  de- 
nounces all  the  Eleusinian  philosophy  as  unintelli- 
gible and  inconceivable ;  and  he  said  to  Euripides, 
that  to  understand  Heraclitus  and  the  old  philoso- 
phers/'one  would  have  to  be  a  swimmer  of  Delos," 
-that  is,  a  swimmer  capable  of  landing  on  an 
island  which  recedes  before  him.  That  was  im- 
piety and  sacrilege  toward  the  ancient  Hellenic 
naturalism.  One  need  seek  no  other  cause  for  the 
antipathy  of  Aristophanes  for  Socrates. 

This  antipathy  was  hideous:  the  poet  has  the 
bearing  of  a  persecutor;  he  lends  assistance  to  the 
oppressors  against  the  oppressed,  and  his  comedy 
is  guilty  of  crimes.  Aristophanes — fearful  pun- 
ishment !  —  has  remained  in  the  eyes  of  posterity 
in  the  predicament  of  an  evil  genius.  But  there  is 
for  him  one  extenuating  circumstance,  —  he  was  an 
ardent  admirer  of  the  poet  of  Prometheus,  and  to 
admire  him  was  to  defend  him.  Aristophanes  did 
what  he  could  to  prevent  his  banishment;  and  if 
anything  can  diminish  one's  indignation  in  reading 
'  The  Clouds/  with  its  rabid  satire  of  Socrates,  it 


156  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

is  to  see  in  the  background  the  hand  of  Aristo- 
phanes detaining  by  the  mantle  the  departing 
^Eschylus.  -^Eschylus  has  likewise  a  comedy,  —  a 
sister  of  the  broad  farce  of  Aristophanes.  We 
have  spoken  of  his  mirth :  it  goes  very  far  in  '  The 
Argians.'  It  equals  Aristophanes,  and  outstrips 
the  Shrove  Tuesday  of  our  Carnival.  Listen :  "  He 
throws  at  my  head  a  chamber  utensil.  The  full 
vase  falls  on  my  head,  and  is  broken,  odoriferous, 
but  not  precisely  like  an  urn  of  perfume."  Who 
says  that?  ^Eschylus.  And  in  his  turn  Shake- 
speare will  come  and  exclaim  through  Falstaff's 
lips:  "  Empty  the  jorden."  What  can  you  say? 
You  have  to  deal  with  savages. 

One  of  these  savages  is  Moliere ;  witness,  from 
one  end  to  the  other,  '  Le  Malade  Imaginaire ' 
('  The  Imaginary  Invalid ').  Racine  also  is,  to 
some  extent,  one  of  them ;  see  '  Les  Plaideurs ' 
('  The  Litigants  '),  already  mentioned. 

The  Abbe  Camus  was  a  witty  bishop,  —  a  rare 
thing  at  all  times;  and,  what  is  more,  he  was  a 
good  man.  He  would  have  deserved  this  re- 
proach of  another  bishop,  our  contemporary,  of 
being  "  good  to  the  point  of  silliness."  Perhaps 
he  was  good  because  he  was  clever.  He  gave  to 
the  poor  all  the  revenue  of  his  bishopric  of  Belley. 
He  objected  to  canonization.  It  was  he  who  said, 
"There's  no  chase  but  with  old  dogs,  and  no  shrine 
but  for  old  saints ;  " l  and  although  he  did  not 
like  new-comers  in  sainthood,  he  was  the  friend  of 
Saint  Francois  de  Sales,  by  whose  advice  he  wrote 

1  This  saw  involves  a  quaint  pun  between  chasse  (chase)  and 
ch&sse  (shrine).  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  157 

romances.  He  relates  in  one  of  his  letters  that 
Francois  de  Sales  had  said  to  him,  "  The  Church 
enjoys  a  laugh." 

Art  enjoys  a  laugh.  Art,  which  is  a  temple,  has 
its  laughter.  Whence  comes  this  hilarity?  All  at 
once,  in  the  midst  of  the  stern  faces  of  seri- 
ous masterpieces,  there  bursts  forth  a  buffoon, 
—  a  masterpiece  he  also.  Sancho  Panza  jostles 
Agamemnon.  All  the  marvels  of  thought  are 
there ;  irony  comes  to  complicate  and  complete 
them.  Enigma.  Behold  Art,  great  Art,  seized 
with  a  fit  of  gayety.  Its  problem,  matter,  amuses 
it.  It  was  forming  it,  now  it  deforms  it.  It  was 
shaping  it  for  beauty,  now  it  delights  in  extracting 
from  it  ugliness.  It  seems  to  forget  its  responsi- 
bility. It  does  not  forget  it,  however;  for  sud- 
denly, behind  the  grimace,  there  shines  the 
countenance  of  philosophy,  —  a  smooth-browed 
philosophy,  less  sidereal,  more  terrestrial,  quite 
as  mysterious,  as  the  gloomy  philosophy.  The 
unknown  in  man  and  the  unknown  in  things 
confront  each  other;  and  in  the  act  of  meeting, 
these  two  augurs,  Fate  and  Nature,  fail  to  keep 
their  faces  straight.  Poetry  burdened  with  anxie- 
ties, befools, —  whom?  Itself.  A  mirth,  which  is 
not  serenity,  gushes  out  from  the  incomprehen- 
sible. An  unknown,  austere,  and  sinister  raillery 
flashes  its  lightning  through  the  human  darkness. 
The  shadows  piled  around  us  play  with  our  soul. 
Formidable  blossoming  of  the  Unknown :  the  jest 
issuing  from  the  abyss. 

This  alarming  mirth  in  Art  is  called,  in  antiquity, 
Aristophanes ;  and  in  modern  times,  Rabelais. 


158  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

When  Pratinas  the  Dorian  had  invented  the 
play  with  satyrs,  —  comedy  making  its  appear- 
ance face  to  face  with  tragedy,  mirth  by  the  side 
of  mourning,  the  two  styles  ready,  perhaps,  to 
unite,  —  it  was  a  matter  of  scandal.  Agathon, 
the  friend  of  Euripides,  went  to  Dodona  to  con- 
sult Loxias.  Loxias  is  Apollo.  Loxias  means 
" crooked,"  and  Apollo  was  called  "The  Crooked," 
because  his  oracles  were  always  indirect,  and  full 
of  meanders  and  coils.  Agathon  inquired  of 
Apollo  whether  the  new  style  was  not  impious, 
and  whether  comedy  existed  by  right  as  well 
as  tragedy.  Loxias  answered :  "  Poetry  has  two 
ears." 

This  answer,  which  Aristotle  declares  obscure, 
seems  to  us  very  clear.  It  sums  up  the  entire  law 
of  Art.  The  poet  finds  himself,  in  fact,  confronted 
by  two  problems.  The  first  open  to  the  sunlight : 
the  noisy,  tumultuous,  stormy,  clamorous  problem, 
—  problem  of  the  crowded  thoroughfare,  of  all  the 
paths  open  to  the  multitudinous  tread  of  human 
feet;  problem  of  disputing  tongues,  of  feuds,  of 
the  passions  with  their  "  Wherefore? "  problem 
of  evil,  which  is  the  beginning  of  sorrow,  for  to 
be  evil  is  worse  than  to  do  it;  problem  of  pain, 
dolor,  tears,  cries,  groans.  The  other,  the  mute 
problem  of  the  shadow,  the  vast  silence,  of  un- 
speakable and  dread  significance.  And  poetry 
has  two  ears :  the  one  listens  to  the  living,  the 
other  to  the  dead. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  159 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE  power  that  Greece  had  to  throw  out  light 
is  marvellous,  even  now  that  we  have  the  example 
of  France.  Greece  did  not  colonize  without  civi- 
lizing, —  an  example  that  more  than  one  modern 
nation  might  follow ;  to  buy  and  sell  is  not  all. 

Tyre  bought  and  sold ;  Berytus  bought  and 
sold  ;  Sidon  bought  and  sold  ;  Sarepta  bought  and 
sold.  Where  are  these  cities?  Athens  taught; 
and  she  is  to  this  hour  one  of  the  capitals  of 
human  thought. 

The  grass  is  growing  on  the  six  steps  of  the 
tribune  where  spoke  Demosthenes  ;  the  Ceramicus 
is  a  ravine  half-choked  with  the  marble-dust  which 
was  once  the  palace  of  Cecrops;  the  Odeon  of 
Herod  Atticus,  at  the  foot  of  the  Acropolis,  is  now 
but  a  ruin  on  which  falls,  at  certain  hours,  the  im- 
perfect shadow  of  the  Parthenon ;  the  temple  of 
Theseus  belongs  to  the  swallows ;  the  goats  browse 
on  the  Pnyx.  Still  the  Greek  spirit  lives ;  still 
Greece  is  queen;  still  Greece  is  goddess.  A 
counting-house  passes  away :  a  school  remains. 

It  is  curious  to  remind  one's  self  to-day  that 
twenty-two  centuries  ago,  small  towns,  isolated 
and  scattered  on  the  outskirts  of  the  known  world, 
possessed,  all  of  them,  theatres.  In  the  interest 
of  civilization,  Greece  began  always  by  the  con- 
struction of  an  academy,  of  a  portico,  or  of  a 
logeum.  Whoever  could  have  seen,  at  almost  the 


l6o  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

same  period,  rising  at  a  short  distance  one  from 
the  other,  in  Umbria,  the  Gallic  town  of  Sens 
(now  Sinigaglia),  and,  near  Vesuvius,  the  Hellenic 
city  Parthenopea  (at  present  Naples),  would  have 
recognized  Gaul  by  the  big  stone  standing  all  red 
with  blood,  and  Greece  by  the  theatre. 

This  civilization  by  Poetry  and  Art  had  such  a 
mighty  force  that  sometimes  it  subdued  even  war. 
The  Sicilians,  as  Plutarch  relates  in  speaking  of 
Nicias,  gave  liberty  to  the  Greek  prisoners  who 
sang  the  verses  of  Euripides. 

Let  us  point  out  some  very  little  known  and 
very  singular  facts. 

The  Messenian  colony,  Zancle,  in  Sicily  ;  the 
Corinthian  colony,  Corcyra,  distinct  from  the 
Corcyra  of  the  Absyrtides  Islands ;  the  Cycladian 
colony,  Cyrene,  in  Libya;  the  three  Phocaean 
colonies,  Helea  in  Lucania,  Palania  in  Corsica, 
Marseilles  in  France,  —  all  had  theatres.  The 
gadfly  having  pursued  lo  all  along  the  Adriatic 
Gulf,  the  Ionian  Sea  reached  as  far  as  the  harbor 
of  Venetus,  and  Tergeste  (now  Trieste)  had  a 
theatre.  A  theatre  at  Salpe,  in  Apulia ;  a  theatre 
at  Squillacium,  in  Calabria ;  a  theatre  at  Thernus, 
in  Livadia;  a  theatre  at  Lysimachia,  founded  by 
Lysimachus,  Alexander's  lieutenant;  a  theatre  at 
Scapta-Hyla,  where  Thucydides  had  gold-mines; 
a  theatre  at  Byzia,  where  Theseus  had  lived ;  a 
theatre  in  Chaonia,  at  Buthrotum,  where  those 
equilibrists  from  Mount  Chimaera  performed  whom 
Apuleius  admired  on  the  Poecile ;  a  theatre  in  Pan- 
nonia,  at  Buda,  where  the  Metanastes  were,  — that 
is  to  say,  "  the  Transplanted."  Many  of  these 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  l6l 

remote  colonies  were  much  exposed.  In  the  Isle 
of  Sardinia — which  the  Greeks  named  Ichnusa,  on 
account  of  its  resemblance  to  the  sole  of  the  foot 
—  Calaris  (now  Cagliari)  was  in  some  sort  under 
the  Punic  claw ;  Cibalis,  in  Mysia,  had  to  fear  the 
Triballi;  Aspalathon,  the  Illyrians;  Tomis,  the 
future  resting-place  of  Ovid,  the  Scordiscae  ;  Mile- 
tus, in  Anatolia,  the  Massagetae ;  Denia,  in  Spain, 
the  Cantabrians ;  Salmydessus,  the  Molossians ; 
Carsina,  the  Tauro-Scythians ;  Gelonus,  the  Arym- 
phaeans  of  Sarmatia,  who  lived  on  acorns ;  Apol- 
lonia,  the  Hamaxobians  prowling  in  their  chariots ; 
Abdera,  the  birthplace  of  Democritus,  the  tattooed 
Thracians.  All  these  towns  by  the  side  of  their 
citadel  had  a  theatre.  Why?  Because  the  theatre 
keeps  alive  the  flame  of  love  for  the  fatherland. 
Having  the  Barbarians  at  their  gates,  it  was  im- 
perative that  they  should  remain  Greeks.  The 
national  spirit  is  the  strongest  of  bulwarks. 

The  Greek  drama  was  profoundly  lyrical.  It 
was  often  less  a  tragedy  than  a  dithyramb.  It  had 
upon  occasion  strophes  as  powerful  as  swords.  It 
rushed  helmeted  upon  the  stage;  it  was  an  ode 
armed  for  battle.  We  know  what  a  Marseillaise 
can  do. 

Many  of  these  theatres  were  of  granite,  some  of 
brick.  The  theatre  of  Apollonia  was  of  marble. 
The  theatre  of  Salmydessus,  which  could  be 
moved  to  the  Doric  place  or  to  the  Epiphanian 
place,  was  a  vast  scaffolding  rolling  on  cylinders, 
after  the  fashion  of  those  wooden  towers  which 
are  thrust  against  the  stone  towers  of  besieged 

towns. 

ii 


1 62  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  what  poet  did  they  prefer  to  play  at  these 
theatres?  ^Eschylus. 

^Eschylus  was  for  Greece  the  autochthonal  poet. 
He  was  more  than  Greek,  he  was  Pelasgian.  He 
was  born  at  Eleusis ;  and  not  only  was  he  Eleu- 
sinian,  but  Eleusiac,1  —  that  is  to  say,  a  believer. 
It  is  the  same  shade  as  that  between  "  English " 
and  "  Anglican."  The  Asiatic  element,  a  sublime 
distortion  of  his  genius,  increased  the  popular 
respect  ;  for  people  said  that  the  great  Dionysus 

—  that  Bacchus  common  to  Occident  and  Orient 

—  came  in  dreams  to  dictate  to  him  his  tragedies. 
You    find    again   here    the    "  familiar    spirit "    of 
Shakespeare. 

^Eschylus,  Eupatrid  and  ^Eginetic,  struck  the 
Greeks  as  more  Greek  than  themselves.  In  those 
times  of  mingled  code  and  dogma,  to  be  sacer- 
dotal was  a  lofty  way  of  being  national.  Fifty-two 
of  his  tragedies  had  been  crowned.  On  leaving 
the  theatre  after  the  performance  of  the  plays  of 
^Eschylus,  the  men  would  strike  the  shields  hung 
at  the  doors  of  the  temples,  crying,  "  Fatherland, 
fatherland  !  "  Let  us  add  that  to  be  hieratic 
did  not  hinder  him  from  being  demotic.  ^Eschy- 
lus  loved  the  people,  and  the  people  adored  him. 
There  are  two  sides  to  greatness :  majesty  is  one, 
familiarity  the  other.  ^Eschylus  was  familiar  with 
the  turbulent  and  generous  mob  of  Athens.  He 
often  gave  to  that  mob  the  noble  part  in  his  plays. 
See  in  '  The  Oresteia '  how  tenderly  the  chorus, 
which  is  the  people,  receives  Cassandra!  The 

11  Victor  Hugo's  word  is  "  eleusiaque."  Neither  the  word  nor  the 
distinction  is  to  be  found  in  the  ordinary  books  of  reference.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  163 

Queen  maltreats  and  frightens  the  slave  whom  the 
chorus  tries  to  reassure  and  soothe.  ^Eschylus 
had  introduced  the  people  in  his  grandest  works, — 
in  '  Pentheus,'  by  the  tragedy  of  '  The  Wool-card- 
ers ;  '  in  '  Niobe,'  by  the  tragedy  of  '  The  Nurses ; ' 
in  '  Athamas,'  by  the  tragedy  of  '  The  Net-draw- 
ers ;  '  in  '  Iphigenia,'  by  the  tragedy  of  '  The  Bed- 
makers.'  It  was  on  the  side  of  the  people  that  he 
turned  the  balance  in  the  mysterious  drama,  '  The 
Weighing  of  Souls.' :  Therefore  had  he  been 
chosen  to  preserve  the  sacred  fire. 

In  all  the  Greek  colonies  they  played  '  The 
Oresteia '  and  '  The  Persians.'  ^schylus  being 
present,  the  fatherland  was  no  longer  absent. 
These  almost  religious  representations  were  or- 
dered by  the  magistrates.  It  was  as  if  to  the 
gigantic  ^Eschylean  theatre  the  task  had  been  in- 
trusted of  watching  over  the  infancy  of  the  colo- 
nies. It  threw  around  them  the  Greek  spirit,  it 
protected  them  from  the  influence  of  bad  neigh- 
bors and  from  all  temptations  of  being  led  astray. 
It  preserved  them  from  contact  with  Barbarism,  it 
maintained  them  within  the  Hellenic  circle.  It 
was  there  as  a  warning.  All  those  young  offspring 
of  Greece  were,  so  to  speak,  placed  under  the  care 
of  ^Eschylus. 

In  India  they  often  give  the  children  into  the 
charge  of  elephants.  These  mountains  of  good- 
ness watch  over  the  little  ones.  The  whole  group 
of  flaxen  heads  sing,  laugh,  and  play  under  the 
shade  of  the  trees.  The  dwelling  is  at  some  dis- 
tance. The  mother  is  not  with  them,  she  is  at 

1  The  Psychostasia. 


1 64  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

home ;  busy  with  her  domestic  cares,  she  gives  no 
heed  to  her  children.  Yet,  merry  as  they  are,  they 
are  in  danger.  These  beautiful  trees  are  treach- 
erous; they  hide  beneath  their  thickets  thorns, 
claws,  and  teeth.  There  the  cactus  bristles,  the 
lynx  roams,  the  viper  crawls.  The  children  must 
not  wander  away;  beyond  a  certain  limit  they 
would  be  lost.  Nevertheless,  they  run  about,  call 
to  each  other,  pull  and  entice  one  another  away, 
some  of  them  just  beginning  to  stammer,  and  quite 
unsteady  on  their  feet.  At  times  one  of  them 
ventures  too  far.  Then  a  formidable  trunk  is 
stretched  out,  seizes  the  little  one,  and  gently  leads 
him  home. 


CHAPTER  X. 

SOME  copies,  more  or  less  complete,  of  ^Eschy- 
lus  were  at  one  time  in  existence. 

Besides  the  copies  in  the  colonies,  which  were 
limited  to  a  small  number  of  pieces,  it  is  certain 
that  partial  copies  of  the  original  at  Athens  were 
made  by  the  Alexandrian  critics  and  scholiasts, 
who  have  left  us  some  fragments ;  among  others, 
the  comic  fragment  of  '  The  Argians,'  the  Bacchic 
fragment  of  'The  Edons,'  the  lines  cited  by  Sto- 
bseus,  and  even  the  probably  apocryphal  verses 
given  by  Justin  the  Martyr. 

These  copies,  buried,  but  perhaps  not  destroyed, 
have  buoyed  up  the  persistent  hope  of  searchers, 
- — notably  of  Le  Clerc,  who  published  in  Holland, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  165 

in  1709,  the  discovered  fragments  of  Menander. 
Pierre  Pelhestre  of  Rouen,  the  man  who  had  read 
everything  (for  which  the  worthy  Archbishop  Pere- 
fixe  scolded  him),  affirmed  that  the  greater  part 
of  the  poems  of  yEschylus  would  be  found  in  the 
libraries  of  the  monasteries  of  Mount  Athos,  just 
as  the  five  books  of  '  The  Annals '  of  Tacitus  had 
been  discovered  in  the  convent  of  Corwey  in  Ger- 
many, and  '  The  Institutes '  of  Quintilian  in  an 
old  tower  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Gall. 

A  tradition,  not  undisputed,  would  have  it  that 
Evergetes  II.  returned  to  Athens,  not  the  original 
draft  of  ^Eschylus,  but  a  copy,  leaving  the  fifteen 
talents  as  compensation. 

Independently  of  the  story  about  Evergetes  and 
Omar  which  we  have  related,  and  which,  while 
true  in  substance,  is  perhaps  legendary  in  more 
than  one  particular,  the  loss  of  so  many  fine  works 
of  antiquity  is  but  too  well  explained  by  the  small 
number  of  copies.  Egypt,  in  particular,  tran- 
scribed everything  on  papyrus.  Papyrus,"  being 
very  dear,  became  very  rare.  People  were  re- 
duced to  the  necessity  of  writing  on  pottery.  To 
break  a  vase  was  to  destroy  a  book.  About  the 
time  when  Jesus  Christ  was  painted  on  the  walls 
at  Rome  with  ass's  hoofs  and  this  inscription, 
"  The  God  of  the  Christians,  hoof  of  an  ass " 
(namely,  in  the  third  century),  to  make  ten  man- 
uscripts of  Tacitus  yearly,  —  or,  as  we  should  say 
to-day,  to  strike  off  ten  copies  of  his  works,  —  a 
Caesar  must  needs  call  himself  Tacitus,  and  believe 
Tacitus  to  have  been  his  uncle.  And  yet  Tacitus 
is  nearly  lost.  Of  the  twenty-eight  years  of  his 


1 66  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

'  History  of  the  Caesars/  extending  from  tjie  year 
69  to  the  year  96,  we  have  but  one  complete  year, 
69,  and  a  fragment  of  the  year  70.  Evergetes 
prohibited  the  exportation  of  papyrus,  which  pro- 
hibition caused  parchment  to  be  invented.  The 
price  of  papyrus  was  so  high  that  Firmius  the 
Cyclops,  manufacturer  of  papyrus  about  the  year 
270,  made  by  his  trade  enough  money  to  raise 
armies,  wage  war  against  Aurelian,  and  declare 
himself  emperor. 

Gutenberg  is  a  redeemer.  These  submersions 
of  the  works  of  the  mind,  inevitable  before  the 
invention  of  printing,  are  now  impossible.  Printing 
is  the  discovery  of  the  inexhaustible;  it  is  per- 
petual motion  found  in  social  science.  From  time 
to  time  a  despot  seeks  to  stop  or  to  slacken  it,  and 
he  is  worn  away  by  the  friction.  Thought  no  more 
to  be  shackled,  progress  no  more  to  be  impeded, 
the  book  imperishable,  —  such  is  the  result  of 
printing.  Before  printing,  civilization  was  subject 
to  losses  of  substance.  The  indications  essential 
to  progress,  derived  from  such  a  philosopher  or 
such  a  poet,  were  all  at  once  missing.  A  page 
was  suddenly  torn  from  the  human  book.  To 
disinherit  humanity  of  all  the  great  bequests  of 
genius,  the  stupidity  of  a  copyist  or  the  caprice  of 
a  tyrant  sufficed.  No  such  danger  exists  in  the 
present  day.  Henceforth  the  undistrainable  reigns. 
No  one  could  serve  a  writ  upon  thought  and  take 
up  its  body.  The  manuscript  was  the  body  of 
the  masterpiece;  the  manuscript  was  perishable, 
and  carried  off  the  soul,  —  the  work.  The  work, 
made  a  printed  sheet,  is  delivered.  It  is  now  only 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 6? 

a  soul.  Kill  now  this  immortal  !  Thanks  to 
Gutenberg,  the  copy  is  no  longer  exhaustible. 
Every  copy  is  a  germ,  and  has  in  itself  its  own 
possible  regeneration  in  thousands  of  editions ;  the 
unit  is  pregnant  with  the  innumerable.  This 
miracle  has  rescued  universal  intelligence.  Guten- 
berg in  the  fifteenth  century  emerges  from  the 
awful  obscurity,  bringing  out  of  the  darkness  that 
ransomed  captive,  the  human  mind.  Gutenberg 
is  forever  the  auxiliary  of  life;  he  is  the  per- 
manent fellow-workman  in  the  great  task  of 
civilization.  Nothing  is  done  without  him.  He 
has  marked  the  transition  from  man  enslaved  to 
man  free.  Try  to  deprive  civilization  of  him,  and 
you  have  Egypt.  The  simple  diminution  of  the 
freedom  of  the  press  is  enough  to  diminish  the 
stature  of  a  people. 

One  of  the  great  features  in  this  deliverance  of 
man  by  printing  is  —  let  us  insist  on  it  —  the  in- 
definite preservation  of  poets  and  philosophers. 
Gutenberg  is  a  second  father  of  the  creations  of 
the  mind.  Before  him  —  yes,  it  was  possible  for 
a  masterpiece  to  die. 

A  mournful  thing  to  say,  —  Greece  and  Rome 
have  left  vast  ruins  of  books.  A  whole  facade  of 
the  human  mind  half  crumbled :  such  is  antiquity. 
Here  the  ruin  of  an  epic,  there  a  tragedy  dis- 
mantled ;  great  verses  effaced,  buried,  and  dis- 
figured, pediments  of  ideas  almost  entirely  fallen, 
geniuses  truncated  like  columns,  palaces  of  thought 
without  ceiling  and  door,  bleached  bones  of  poems, 
a  death's-head  which  was  once  a  strophe,  immor- 
tality in  rubbish  !  These  things  inspire  bodeful 


1 68  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

dreams.  Oblivion,  a  black  spider,  hangs  its  web 
between  the  drama  of  ./Eschylus  and  the  history 
of  Tacitus. 

Where  is  ^Eschylus?  In  scraps  everywhere. 
^Eschylus  is  scattered  about  in  twenty  texts.  His 
ruins  must  be  sought  in  innumerable  places.  Athe- 
naeus  gives  the  dedication  '  To  Time/  Macrobius 
the  fragment  of  '^Etna'  and  the  homage  to  the 
Palici,  Pausanias  the  epitaph;  the  biographer  is 
anonymous ;  Goltzius  and  Meursius  give  the  titles 
of  the  lost  pieces. 

We  know  from  Cicero,  in  the  '  Disputationes 
Tusculanae/  that  ^Eschylus  was  a  Pythagorean; 
from  Herodotus  that  he  fought  bravely  at  Mara- 
thon ;  from  Diodorus  of  Sicily  that  his  brother 
Amynias  behaved  valiantly  at  Plataea ;  from  Justin 
that  his  brother  Cynegyrus  was  heroic  at  Salamis. 
We  know  by  the  didascalies  that  *  The  Persians  ' 
was  represented  under  the  archon  Meno,  '  The 
Seven  Chiefs  against  Thebes '  under  the  archon 
Theagenides,  and  '  The  Oresteia '  under  the  archon 
Philocles ;  we  know  from  Aristotle  that  yEschylus 
was  the  first  to  venture  to  make  two  personages 
speak  at  once  on  the  stage ;  from  Plato  that  the 
slaves  were  present  at  his  plays ;  from  Horace  that 
he  invented  the  mask  and  the  buskin  ;  from  Pollux 
that  pregnant  women  miscarried  at  the  appearance 
of  his  Furies ;  from  Philostratus  that  he  abridged 
the  monodies ;  from  Suidas  that  his  theatre  fell  in 
under  the  weight  of  the  crowd ;  from  ^Elian  that 
he  committed  blasphemy;  from  Plutarch  that  he 
was  exiled ;  from  Valerius  Maximus  that  an  eagle 
killed  him  by  letting  a  tortoise  fall  on  his  head ; 


WILLIAM  ShAKESPEARE.  169 

from  Quintilian  that  his  plays  were  recast;  from 
Fabricius  that  his  sons  are  accused  of  this  crime 
of  leze-paternity ;  from  the  Arundel  marbles  the 
date  of  his  birth,  the  date  of  his  death,  and  his  age, 
—  sixty-nine  years. 

Now,  take  away  from  the  drama  the  Orient  and 
replace  it  by  the  North,  take  away  Greece  and  put 
in  England,  take  away  India  and  put  in  Germany 
(that  other  immense  mother,  Alemannia,  All-men), 
take  away  Pericles  and  put  in  Elizabeth,  take  away 
the  Parthenon  and  put  in  the  Tower  of  London,  take 
away  the //<?&$•  and  put  in  the  mob,  take  away  fatal- 
ity and  put  in  melancholy,  take  away  the  Gorgon 
and  put  in  the  witch,  take  away  the  eagle  and  put 
in  the  cloud,  take  away  the  sun  and  light  the  wind- 
swept heath  with  a  ghastly  moonrise,  —  and  you 
have  Shakespeare. 

Given  the  dynasty  of  men  of  genius,  the  origi- 
nality of  each  being  absolutely  reserved,  the  poet 
of  the  Carlovingian  formation  being  the  natural 
successor  of  the  poet  of  the  Jupiterian  formation, 
the  Gothic  mist  succeeding  the  antique  mystery,  — 
and  Shakespeare  is  yEschylus  II. 

There  remains  the  right  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, creator  of  the  third  world,  to  be  represented 
in  Art.  Art  is  an  immense  gaping  chasm,  ready 
to  receive  all  that  is  within  possibility. 


BOOK    V. 

SOULS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  production  of  souls  is  the  secret  of  the  un- 
fathomable depth.  The  innate,  what  a  shadow ! 
What  is  that  concentration  of  the  unknown  which 
takes  place  in  the  darkness ;  and  whence  abruptly 
breaks  the  light  of  genius?  What  is  the  law  of 
such  advents,  O  Love?  The  human  heart  does  its 
work  on  earth,  and  by  that  the  great  deep  is  moved. 
What  is  that  incomprehensible  meeting  of  material 
sublimation  and  moral  sublimation  in  the  atom,  in- 
divisible from  the  point  of  view  of  life,  incorruptible 
from  the  point  of  view  of  death  ?  The  atom,  —  what 
a  marvel!  No  dimension,  no  extent,  nor  height, 
nor  breadth,  nor  thickness,  independent  of  every 
possible  measurement ;  and  yet,  everything  in  this 
nothing  !  For  algebra  a  geometrical  point,  for  phi- 
losophy a  soul.  As  a  geometrical  point,  the  basis 
of  science :  as  a  soul,  the  basis  of  faith.  Such  is 
the  atom.  Two  urns,  the  sexes,  imbibe  life  from 
the  infinite,  and  the  spilling  of  one  into  the  other 
produces  the  being.  This  is  the  norm  for  all,  for 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  I /I 

the  animal  as  well  as  for  man.  But  the  man  more 
than  man,  whence  comes  he? 

The  supreme  intelligence,  which  here  below  is 
the  great  man,  what  is  the  power  which  evokes  it, 
incarnates  it,  and  reduces  it  to  a  human  state? 
What  part  do  flesh  and  blood  take  in  this  miracle? 
Why  do  certain  terrestrial  sparks  seek  certain  ce- 
lestial molecules?  Where  do  they  plunge,  those 
sparks?  Whither  do  they  go?  How  do  they  pro- 
ceed? What  is  this  faculty  of  man  to  set  fire  to 
the  unknown?  This  mine,  the  infinite,  this  product, 
a  genius,  —  what  more  formidable?  Whence  does 
it  issue?  Why,  at  a  given  moment,  this  one,  and 
not  that  one  !  Here,  as  everywhere,  the  incalcula- 
ble law  of  affinities  appears  but  to  escape  our  ken. 
One  gets  a  glimpse,  but  sees  not.  O  forgeman 
of  the  gulf!  where  art  thou? 

Qualities  the  most  diverse,  the  most  complex, 
the  most  opposed  in  appearance,  enter  into  the 
composition  of  souls.  Contraries  are  not  mutually 
exclusive ;  far  from  that,  they  complete  each  other. 
Such  a  prophet  contains  a  scholiast ;  such  a  magian 
is  a  philologian.  Inspiration  knows  its  own  trade. 
Every  poet  is  a  critic :  witness  the  excellent  piece 
of  theatrical  criticism  that  Shakespeare  puts  into 
the  mouth  of  Hamlet.  A  visionary  mind  may  also 
be  precise,  like  Dante,  who  writes  a  book  on  rhet- 
oric, and  a  grammar.  A  precise  mind  may  be 
also  visionary,  like  Newton,  who  comments  on  the 
Apocalypse ;  like  Leibnitz,  who  demonstrates,  nova 
inventa  logica,  the  Holy  Trinity.  Dante  knows  the 
distinctions  between  the  three  sorts  of  words,  parola 
piana,  parola  sdrucciola,  parola  tronca ;  he  knows 


172  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

that  the  piana  gives  a  trochee,  the  sdrucciola  a  dac- 
tyl, and  the  tronca  an  iamb.  Newton  is  perfectly 
sure  that  the  Pope  is  the  Antichrist.  Dante  com- 
bines and  calculates ;  Newton  dreams. 

There  is  no  tangible  law  in  this  obscurity.  No 
system  is  possible.  The  currents  of  adhesion  and 
of  cohesion  cross  each  other  at  random.  At  times 
one  imagines  that  one  detects  the  phenomenon  of 
the  transmission  of  the  idea ;  one  seems  distinctly 
to  see  a  hand  taking  the  torch  from  him  who  is 
departing,  and  passing  it  on  to  him  who  arrives. 
1642,  for  example,  is  a  strange  year.  Galileo  dies, 
Newton  is  born  in  that  year.  Very  good,  it  is  a 
clew;  but  try  to  tie  it,  it  breaks  at  once.  Here  is 
a  disappearance:  on  the  23d  of  April,  1616,  on 
the  same  day,  almost  at  the  same  minute,  Shake- 
speare and  Cervantes  die.  Why  are  these  two 
flames  extinguished  at  the  same  moment?  No 
apparent  logic.  A  whirlwind  in  the  night. 

Questions  unanswered  at  every  turn :  why  does 
Commodus  issue  from  Marcus  Aurelius? 

These  problems  beset  in  the  desert  Jerome,  that 
man  of  the  caves,  that  Isaiah  of  the  New  Testament. 
He  interrupted  his  preoccupation  with  eternity  and 
his  attention  to  the  trumpet  of  the  archangel,  in 
order  to  meditate  on  the  soul  of  some  Pagan  in 
whom  he  felt  interested ;  he  calculated  the  age  of 
Persius,  connecting  that  research  with  some  ob- 
scure chance  of  possible  salvation  for  that  poet, 
dear  to  the  Cenobite  on  account  of  his  austerity. 
And  nothing  is  so  surprising  as  to  see  this  wild 
thinker,  half  naked  on  his  straw  like  Job,  dispute 
on  this  question,  apparently  so  frivolous,  of  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  173 

birth  of  a  man,  with  Rufinus  and  Theophilus  of 
Alexandria,  —  Rufinus  observing  to  him  that  he  is 
mistaken  in  his  calculations,  and  that  Persius  hav- 
ing been  born  in  December,  under  the  consulship 
of  Publius  Marius  and  Asinius  Gallus,  these  periods 
do  not  correspond  rigorously  with  the  year  II.  of 
the  two  hundred  and  third  olympiad  and  the  year 
II.  of  the  two  hundred  and  tenth,  the  dates  fixed 
by  Jerome.  It  is  thus  that  the  mystery  invites 
contemplation. 

These  calculations,  almost  wild,  of  Jerome  or 
others  like  him,  are  made  by  more  than  one 
dreamer.  Never  to  find  a  stop,  to  pass  from 
one  spiral  to  another  like  Archimedes,  and  from 
one  zone  to  another  like  Alighieri,  to  fall  fluttering 
down  the  circular  shaft,  —  this  is  the  eternal  lot  of 
the  dreamer.  He  strikes  against  the  hard  wall  on 
which  the  pale  ray  glides.  Sometimes  certainty 
comes  to  him  as  an  obstacle,  and  sometimes  clear- 
ness as  a  fear.  He  keeps  on  his  way.  He  is  the 
bird  beneath  the  vault.  It  is  frightful;  but  no 
matter,  the  dreamer  goes  on. 

To  muse  is  to  think  here  and  there,  passim. 
What  means  the  birth  of  Euripides  during  the 
battle  of  Salamis,  where  Sophocles,  a  youth,  prays, 
and  where  ^Eschylus,  a  mature  man,  fights?  What 
means  the  birth  of  Alexander  the  night  which  saw 
the  burning  of  the  temple  of  Ephesus?  What  tie 
exists  between  that  temple  and  that  man?  Is  it 
the  conquering  and  radiant  spirit  of  Europe,  which, 
perishing  in  the  form  of  the  masterwork,  reappears 
in  the  form  of  the  hero?  For  it  must  not  be  for- 
gotten that  Ctesiphon  is  the  Greek  architect  of  the 


174  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

temple  of  Ephesus.  We  mentioned  just  now  the 
simultaneous  disappearance  of  Shakespeare  and 
Cervantes.  Here  is  another  case  not  less  sur- 
prising. The  day  Diogenes  dies  at  Corinth,  Alex- 
ander dies  at  Babylon.  These  two  cynics  —  the 
one  of  the  tub,  the  other  of  the  sword  —  depart 
together;  and  Diogenes,  eager  to  bathe  in  the 
radiance  of  the  vast  unknown,  will  again  say  to 
Alexander,  "  Stand  out  of  my  sunlight." 

What  is  the  meaning  of  certain  harmonies  in  the 
myths  represented  by  divine  men?  What  is  that 
analogy  between  Hercules  and  Jesus  which  struck 
the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  which  shocked  Sorel 
but  edified  Duperron,  and  which  makes  Alcides  a 
kind  of  material  mirror  of  Christ?  Was  there  not 
a  community  of  soul  and  an  unconscious  commu- 
nication between  the  Greek  legislator  and  the  He- 
brew legislator,  who  (neither  of  them  knowing  the 
other,  or  even  suspecting  his  existence)  created  at 
the  same  moment,  the  first  the  Areopagus,  the 
second  the  Sanhedrim?  Strange  resemblance  be- 
tween the  jubilee  of  Moses  and  the  jubilee  of 
Lycurgus !  What  are  these  double  paternities, 
—  paternity  of  the  body,  paternity  of  the  soul,  like 
that  of  David  for  Solomon?  Giddy  heights,  steeps, 
precipices. 

He  who  looks  too  long  into  this  sacred  horror 
feels  immensity  unsettling  his  brain.  What  does 
the  sounding-line  give  you  when  thrown  into  that 
mystery?  What  do  you  see?  Conjectures  waver, 
doctrines  shudder,  hypotheses  float;  all  human 
philosophy  shivers  in  the  mournful  blast  rising 
from  that  chasm. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  175 

The  expanse  of  the  possible  is  in  some  sort  under 
your  eyes.  The  dream  that  you  have  within  your- 
self, you  discover  beyond  yourself.  All  is  indis- 
tinct. Confused  white  shadows  are  moving.  Are 
they  souls?  In  the  deeps  of  space  there  are  pass- 
ings of  vague  archangels:  will  they  one  day  be 
men?  Grasping  your  head  between  your  hands, 
you  strive  to  see  and  to  know.  You  are  at  the 
window  opening  into  the  unknown.  On  all  sides 
the  deep  layers  of  effects  and  causes,  heaped  one 
behind  the  other,  wrap  you  with  mist.  The  man 
who  meditates  not,  lives  in  blindness ;  the  man  who 
meditates,  lives  in  darkness.  The  choice  between 
darkness  and  darkness,  —  that  is  all  we  have.  In 
that  darkness,  which  thus  far  is  nearly  all  our  sci- 
ence, experience  gropes,  observation  lies  in  wait, 
supposition  wanders  about.  If  you  gaze  into  it 
very  often,  you  become  the  vates.  Protracted  re- 
ligious meditation  takes  possession  of  you. 

Every  man  has  within  him  his  Patmos.  He  is 
free  to  go,  or  not  to  go,  out  upon  that  frightful 
promontory  of  thought  from  which  one  perceives 
the  shadow.  If  he  goes  not,  he  remains  in  the 
common  life,  with  the  common  conscience,  with 
the  common  virtue,  with  the  common  faith,  or 
with  the  common  doubt;  and  it  is  well.  For 
inward  peace  it  is  evidently  the  best.  If  he  goes 
out  upon  those  heights,  he  is  taken  captive.  The 
profound  waves  of  the  marvellous  have  appeared 
to  him.  No  one  views  with  impunity  that  ocean. 
Henceforth  he  will  be  the  thinker,  dilated,  en- 
larged, but  floating;  that  is  to  say,  the  dreamer. 
He  will  partake  of  the  poet  and  of  the  prophet. 


i;6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Henceforth  a  certain  portion  of  him  belongs  to  the 
shadow.  An  element  of  the  boundless  enters  into 
his  life,  into  his  conscience,  into  his  virtue,  into 
his  philosophy.  Having  a  different  measure  from 
other  men,  he  becomes  extraordinary  in  their  eyes. 
He  has  duties  which  they  have  not.  He  lives  in 
a  sort  of  diffused  prayer,  and,  strange  indeed,  at- 
taches himself  to  an  indeterminate  certainty  which 
he  calls  God.  He  distinguishes  in  that  twilight 
enough  of  the  anterior  life  and  enough  of  the 
ulterior  life  to  seize  these  two  ends  of  the  dark 
thread,  and  with  them  to  bind  his  soul  to  life. 
Who  has  drunk  will  drink,  who  has  dreamed  will 
dream.  He  will  not  give  up  that  alluring  abyss, 
that  sounding  of  the  fathomless,  that  indifference 
for  the  world  and  for  this  life,  that  entrance  into 
the  forbidden,  that  effort  to  handle  the  impalpable 
and  to  see  the  invisible :  he  returns  to  it,  he  leans 
and  bends  over  it,  he  takes  one  step  forward,  then 
two;  and  thus  it  is  that  one  penetrates  into  the 
impenetrable,  and  thus  it  is  that  one  finds  the 
boundless  release  of  infinite  meditation. 

He  who  descends  there  is  a  Kant ;  he  who  falls 
there  is  a  Swedenborg. 

To  preserve  the  freedom  of  the  will  in  that 
expansion,  is  to  be  great.  But,  however  great 
one  may  be,  the  problems  cannot  be  solved.  One 
may  ply  the  fathomless  with  questions:  nothing 
more.  As  for  the  answers,  they  are  there,  but 
veiled  by  the  shadow.  The  colossal  lineaments  of 
truth  seem  at  times  to  appear  for  a  moment ;  then 
they  fade  away,  and  are  lost  in  the  absolute.  Of 
all  these  questions,  that  among  them  all  which 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

besets  the  intellect,  that  among  them  all  which 
weighs  upon  the  heart,  is  the  question  of  the  soul. 

Does  the  soul  exist?  —  question  the  first.  The 
persistence  of  self  is  the  longing  of  man.  -With- 
out the  persistent  self,  all  creation  is  for  him  but 
an  immense  cui  bono?  Listen,  therefore,  to  the 
tremendous  affirmation  which  bursts  forth  from  all 
consciences.  The  whole  sum  of  God  that  there  is 
on  the  earth,  within  all  men,  concentrates  itself 
in  a  single  cry  to  affirm  the  soul.  And  then,  — 
question  the  second:  Are  there  great  souls? 

It  seems  impossible  to  doubt  it.  Why  not  great 
minds  in  humanity,  as  well  as  great  trees  in  the 
forest,  as  well  as  great  peaks  at  the  horizon?  We 
behold  great  souls  as  we  behold  great  mountains : 
hence  they  exist.  But  here  the  interrogation  presses, 
it  becomes  anxious  :  whence  come  they?  What  are 
they  ?  Who  are  they  ?  Are  these  atoms  more  divine 
than  others?  This  atom,  for  instance,  which  shall 
be  endowed  with  irradiation  here  below,  this  one 
which  shall  be  Thales,  this  one  ^Eschylus,  this  one 
Plato,  this  one  Ezekiel,  this  one  Maccabaeus,  this 
one  Apollonius  of  Tyana,  this  one  Tertullian, 
this  one  Epictetus,  this  one  Marcus  Aurelius,  this 
one  Nestorius,  this  one  Pelagius,  this  one  Gama, 
this  one  Copernicus,  this  one  John  Huss,  this  one 
Descartes,  this  one  Vincent  de  Paul,  this  one  Pira- 
nesi,  this  one  Washington,  this  one  Beethoven,  this 
one  Garibaldi,  this  one  John  Brown,  —  all  these 
atoms,  souls  having  a  sublime  function  among 
men,  have  they  seen  other  worlds,  and  do  they 
bring  to  earth  the  essence  of  those  worlds?  The 
master-souls,  the  guiding  intelligences,  — who  sends 

12 


i;8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

them?  who  determines  their  advent?  who  is  judge 
of  the  actual  want  of  humanity?  who  chooses  the 
souls?  who  musters  the  atoms?  who  ordains  the 
depastures?  who  premeditates  the  arrivals?  Does 
the  link-atom,  the  atom  universal,  the  atom  binder 
of  worlds,  exist?  Is  not  that  the  great  soul? 

To  complete  one  universe  by  the  other ;  to  pour 
upon  the  insufficiency  of  the  one  the  excess  of  the 
other;  to  increase  here  liberty,  there  science,  there 
the  ideal ;  to  communicate  to  inferiors  patterns  of 
superior  beauty ;  to  effect  an  exchange  of  effluences ; 
to  bring  the  central  fire  to  the  planet ;  to  harmonize 
the  various  worlds  of  the  same  system ;  to  urge  for- 
ward those  which  lag  behind ;  to  mingle  the  crea- 
tions,—  does  not  that  mysterious  function  exist? 

Is  it  not  unwittingly  fulfilled  by  certain  chosen 
spirits  who,  during  the  moments  of  their  earthly 
pilgrimage,  are  in  part  unknown  to  themselves? 
Is  it  not  the  function  of  such  or  such  an  atom,  a 
divine  motive  power  called  soul,  to  bring  a  solar 
man  to  go  and  come  among  terrestrial  men? 
Since  the  floral  atom  exists,  why  should  not  the 
stellar  atom  exist?  That  solar  man  will  be,  in 
turn,  the  savant,  the  seer,  the  calculator,  the  thau- 
maturgus,  the  navigator,  the  architect,  the  magian, 
the  legislator,  the  philosopher,  the  prophet,  the 
hero,  the  poet.  The  life  of  humanity  will  move 
onward  through  them.  The  transport  of  civiliza- 
tion will  be  their  task  ;  these  spirit-teams  will 
draw  the  huge  chariot.  One  being  unyoked,  an- 
other will  start  again.  Each  turn  of  a  century  will 
be  a  stage,  and  there  will  never  be  a  break  in  the 
'connection.  That  which  one  mind  begins,  another 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  179 

mind  will  finish,  chaining  phenomenon  to  phe- 
nomenon, sometimes  without  suspecting  the  links. 
To  each  revolution  in  fact  will  correspond  an  ade- 
quate revolution  in  idea,  and  reciprocally.  The 
horizon  will  not  be  allowed  to  extend  to  the  right 
without  stretching  as  much  to  the  left.  Men  the 
most  diverse,  the  most  opposite  even,  will  find  un- 
expected points  of  contact,  and  in  these  alliances 
the  imperious  logic  of  progress  will  be  made  plain. 
Orpheus,  Buddha,  Confucius,  Zoroaster,  Pythago- 
ras, Moses,  Manu,  Mahomet,  with  many  more,  will 
be  links  of  the  same  chain.  A  Gutenberg  dis- 
covering a  method  for  the  sowing  of  civilization 
and  a  means  for  the  ubiquity  of  thought,  will  be 
followed  by  a  Christopher  Columbus  discovering  a 
new  field.  A  Christopher  Columbus  discovering 
a  new  world  will  be  followed  by  a  Luther  discover- 
ing a  new  liberty.  After  Luther,  innovator  in  dog- 
ma, will  come  Shakespeare,  innovator  in  art.  One 
genius  completes  another. 

But  not  in  the  same  region.  The  astronomer 
supplements  the  philosopher;  the  legislator  is  the 
executor  of  the  poet's  wishes ;  the  fighting  libera- 
tor lends  his  aid  to  the  thinking  liberator;  the 
poet  corroborates  the  statesman.  Newton  is  the 
appendix  to  Bacon ;  Danton  originates  in  Diderot; 
Milton  confirms  Cromwell;  Byron  supports  Boz- 
zaris ;  ^Eschylus,  before  him,  -has  assisted  Miltia- 
des.  The  work  is  mysterious  even  for  the  men 
who  perform  it.  Some  are  conscious  of  it,  others 
are  not.  At  great  distances,  at  intervals  of  centu- 
ries, the  correlations  manifest  themselves,  wonder- 
ful ;  the  softening  of  human  manners  begun  by 


180  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

the  religious  revealer,  will  be  completed  by  the 
philosophical  reasoner,  so  that  Voltaire  continues 
Jesus.  Their  work  harmonizes  and  coincides.  If 
this  concordance  depended  upon  them,  both  would 
resist,  perhaps :  the  one,  the  divine  man,  indignant 
in  his  martyrdom ;  the  other,  the  human  man,  hu- 
miliated in  his  irony.  But  the  fact  remains.  Some 
power  that  is  very  high  ordains  it  thus. 

Yes,  let  us  meditate  upon  these  vast  obscurities. 
Revery  fixes  its  gaze  upon  the  shadow  until  there 
issues  from  it  light. 

Properly  speaking,  civilization  is  humanity  de- 
veloping itself  from  within  outward.  Human 
intelligence  radiates,  and,  little  by  little,  wins,  sub- 
dues, and  humanizes  matter.  Sublime  domestica- 
tion !  This  labor  has  phases,  and  each  of  these 
phases,  marking  an  age  in  progress,  is  opened 
or  closed  by  one  of  those  beings  called  "  men  of 
genius."  These  missionary  spirits,  these  legates  of 
God,  do  they  not  carry  in  them  a  sort  of  partial 
solution  of  the  question,  so  abstruse,  of  free-will  ? 
The  apostolate,  being  an  act  of  will,  is  related  on 
one  side  to  liberty;  and  on  the  other,  being  a 
mission,  is  related  by  predestination  to  fatality. 
The  voluntary  necessity.  Such  is  the  Messiah; 
such  is  genius. 

Now  let  us  return  —  for  all  questions  which  per- 
tain to  mystery  form  the  circle  from  which  one 
cannot  escape  —  let  us  return  to  our  starting-point 
and  to  our  first  question:  What  is  a  genius?  Is 
it  not  perchance  a  cosmic  soul, —  a  soul  penetrated 
by  a  ray  from  the  unknown?  In  what  deeps  are 
such  souls  prepared?  What  stages  do  they  pass 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  l8l 

through?  What  medium  do  they  traverse?  What 
is  the  germination  which  precedes  the  hatching? 
What  is  the  antenatal  mystery?  Where  was  this 
atom?  It  seems  to  be  the  point  of  intersection 
of  all  the  forces.  How  come  all  the  powers  to 
converge  and  tie  themselves  into  an  invisible  unity 
in  this  sovereign  intelligence?  Who  has  brooded 
upon  this  eagle?  The  incubation  of  genius  by 
the  abysmal  deep :  what  a  riddle !  These  lofty 
souls,  momentarily  belonging  to  earth,  have  they 
not  seen  something  else?  Is  it  for  that  reason 
that  they  come  to  us  with  so  many  intuitions  ? 
Some  of  them  seem  full  of  the  dream  of  a  pre- 
vious world.  Is  it  thence  that  comes  to  them  the 
terror  that  they  sometimes  feel?  Is  it  this  which 
inspires  them  with  perplexing  words?  Is  it  this 
which  fills  them  with  strange  agitations?  Is  it 
this  which  possesses  them  until  they  seem  to  see 
and  touch  imaginary  things  and  beings?  Moses 
had  his  burning  bush;  Socrates  his  familiar  de- 
mon ;  Mahomet  his  dove ;  Luther  his  goblin  play- 
ing with  his  pen,  and  to  whom  he  would  say,  "  Be 
still,  there !  "  Pascal  his  open  precipice,  which  he 
hid  with  a  screen. 

Many  of  these  majestic  souls  are  evidently  con- 
scious of  a  mission.  They  act  at  times  as  if  they 
knew.  They  seem  to  have  a  confused  certainty. 
They  have  it.  They  have  it  for  the  mysterious 
ensemble ;  they  have  it  also  for  the  detail.  John 
Huss  dying  predicts  Luther.  He  exclaims  :  "  You 
burn  the  goose  (Huss),  but  the  swan  will  come." 
Who  sends  these  souls?  Who  fills  them  with 
life?  What  is  the  law  of  their  formation  anterior  and 


1 82  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

superior  to  life?  Who  provides  them  with  force, 
patience,  fruitfulness,  will,  wrath?  From  what  urn 
of  goodness  have  they  drawn  their  austerity?  In 
what  regions  of  the  lightnings  have  they  gathered 
love  ?  Each  of  these  great  new-born  souls  renews 
philosophy,  or  art,  or  science,  or  poetry,  and  re- 
creates these  worlds  in  its  own  image.  They  are 
as  if  impregnated  with  creative  power.  At  times 
there  emanates  from  these  souls  a  truth  which 
lights  up  the  questions  on  which  it  falls :  such  a 
soul  is  like  a  star  from  which  light  should  gutter. 
From  what  wonderful  source,  then,  do  they  pro- 
ceed, that  they  are  all  different?  No  one  springs 
from  the  other,  and  yet  they  have  this  in  common, 
—  that  they  all  bring  in  the  infinite.  Incommen- 
surable and  insoluble  question !  That  does  not 
hinder  worthy  pedants  and  knowing  people  from 
bridling  up  and  saying,  as  they  point  to  the 
heights  of  civilization  where  shines  the  starry 
group  of  men  of  genius :  "  You  shall  see  no  more 
men  like  those.  They  cannot  be  matched.  There 
are  no  more  of  them.  We  declare  to  you  that 
the  earth  has  exhausted  its  contingent  of  master- 
spirits. Now  for  decadence  and  general  closing 
up.  We  must  make  up  our  minds  to  it.  We  shall 
have  no  more  men  of  genius."  Ah !  you  have 
seen  the  bottom  of  the  unfathomable,  you ! 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  183 


CHAPTER  II. 

No,  Thou  art  not  worn  out !  Thou  hast  not 
before  thee  the  bourn,  the  limit,  the  term,  the 
frontier.  Thou  hast  nothing  to  bound  Thee,  as 
winter  bounds  summer,  as  lassitude  the  birds,  as 
the  precipice  the  torrent,  as  the  cliff  the  ocean, 
as  the  tomb  man.  Thou  art  without  end.  "  Hither- 
to shalt  thou  come,  but  no  farther,"  is  spoken  by 
Thee,  and  it  is  not  spoken  of  Thee.  No,  Thou 
windest  not  a  diminishing  skein  of  brittle  thread. 
No,  Thou  stoppest  not  short.  No,  Thy  quantity 
decreaseth  not  ;  Thy  breadth  is  not  becoming 
narrowness ;  Thy  faculty  miscarrieth  not.  No,  it  is 
not  true  that  they  begin  to  perceive  in  Thy  om- 
nipotence that  transparence  which  announces  the 
end,  and  to  get  a  glimpse  of  something  else  beyond 
Thee.  Something  beyond!  And  what  then?  — 
an  obstacle:  obstacle  to  whom?  An  obstacle  to 
creation !  an  obstacle  to  the  immanent !  an  ob- 
stacle to  the  necessary !  What  a  dream  ! 

Men  say,  "  This  is  as  far  as  God  advances.  Ask 
no  more  of  Him.  He  starts  from  here  and  stops 
there.  In  Homer,  in  Aristotle,  in  Newton,  He  has 
given  you  all  that  He  had.  Leave  Him  at  rest 
now ;  His  strength  is  drained.  God  does  not  begin 
again.  He  could  do  that  once,  He  cannot  do  it 
twice.  He  has  quite  spent  Himself  upon  this  man ; 
enough  of  God  does  not  remain  to  make  a  similar 
man."  At  hearing  such  things,  wert  Thou  a  man 


1 84  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

like  them,  Thou  wouldst  smile  in  Thy  dreadful 
deep ;  but  Thou  art  not  in  a  dreadful  deep,  and, 
being  goodness,  Thou  hast  no  smile.  The  smile 
is  but  a  passing  wrinkle,  unknown  to  the  absolute. 

Thou  stricken  by  a  chill !  Thou  cease  !  Thou 
suffer  impediment !  Thou  to  cry  "  Halt !  "  Never. 
Shouldst  Thou  be  compelled  to  take  breath  after 
having  created  a  man?  No;  whoever  that  man 
may  be,  Thou  art  God.  If  this  pale  throng  of 
living  beings,  in  presence  of  the  unknown,  must 
feel  wonder  and  dismay  at  something,  it  is  not  at 
beholding  the  generative  principle  dry  up,  and 
creative  power  grow  sterile;  it  is,  O  God,  at  the 
eternal  unleashing  of  miracles.  The  hurricane  of 
miracles  blows  perpetually.  Day  and  night  the 
phenomena  surge  around  us  on  all  sides,  and  (what 
is  not  least  marvellous)  without  disturbing  the 
majestic  tranquillity  of  the  Creation.  This  tumult 
is  harmony. 

The  huge  concentric  waves  of  universal  life  are 
shoreless.  The  starry  sky  that  we  study  is  but  a 
partial  appearance.  We  grasp  but  a  few  meshes 
of  the  vast  network  of  existence.  The  complica- 
tion of  the  phenomenon,  of  which  a  glimpse  can 
be  caught  beyond  our  senses  only  by  contempla- 
tion and  ecstasy,  makes  the  mind  giddy.  The 
thinker  who  reaches  so  far  is  to  other  men  only 
a  visionary.  The  necessary  interlacement  of  the 
perceptible  with  the  non-perceptible  strikes  the 
philosopher  with  stupor.  This  plenitude  is  re- 
quired by  Thy  omnipotence,  which  admits  no  gap. 
The  interpenetration  of  universe  with  universe 
makes  part  of  Thy  infinitude.  Here  we  extend 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 8  5 

the  word  "  universe  "  to  an  order  of  facts  that  no 
astronomer  can  reach.  In  the  Cosmos,  invisible  to 
fleshly  eye,  but  revealed  to  vision,  sphere  blends 
with  sphere  without  change  of  form,  the  creations 
being  of  diverse  density ;  so  that,  to  all  appearance, 
with  our  world  is  inexplicably  merged  another, 
invisible  to  us  as  we  to  it. 

And  Thou,  centre  and  base  of  things,  Thou,  the 
"  I  Am,"  exhausted  !  Can  the  absolute  serenities 
be  distressed,  from  time  to  time,  by  want  of  power 
on  the  part  of  the  Infinite?  Shall  we  believe  that 
an  hour  may  come  when  Thou  canst  no  longer 
furnish  the  light  of  which  humanity  has  need; 
that,  mechanically  unwearied,  Thou  mayst  grow 
faint  in  the  intellectual  and  moral  order,  so  that 
men  may  say,  "  God  is  extinct  upon  that  side"? 
No!  No!  No!  O  Father! 

Phidias  created  does  not  hinder  Thee  from  mak- 
ing Michael  Angelo.  Michael  Angelo  formed, 
there  still  remains  to  Thee  the  material  for  Rem- 
brandt. A  Dante  does  not  fatigue  Thee.  Thou 
art  no  more  exhausted  by  a  Homer  than  by  a  star. 
Auroras  by  the  side  of  auroras,  the  indefinite  re- 
newal of  meteors,  worlds  above  worlds,  the  porten- 
tous passage  of  those  flaming  stars  called  comets, 
men  of  genius,  Orpheus,  then  Moses,  then  Isaiah, 
then  ^Eschylus,  then  Lucretius,  then  Tacitus,  then 
Juvenal,  then  Cervantes  and  Rabelais,  then  Shake- 
speare, then  Moliere,  then  Voltaire,  those  who  have 
been  and  those  to  come,  —  all  that  does  not  weary 
Thee.  Chaos  of  constellations !  there  is  room  in 
Thy  immensity. 


PART  II. 


PART    SECOND. 


BOOK    I. 

SHAKESPEARE.  — HIS   GENIUS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

"  QHAKESPEARE,"  says  Forbes,  "had  neither 
O  the  tragic  talent  nor  the  comic  talent.  His 
tragedy  is  artificial,  and  his  comedy  is  but  instinc- 
tive." Dr.  Johnson  confirms  the  verdict.  "  His 
tragedy  is  the  product  of  industry,  and  his  comedy 
the  product  of  instinct."  After  Forbes  and  John- 
son have  contested  his  claim  to  dramatic  talent, 
Greene  contests  his  claim  to  originality.  Shake- 
speare is  "  a  plagiarist;"  Shakespeare  is  "a  copy- 
ist; "  Shakespeare  "has  invented  nothing;  "  he  is 
"  a  crow  adorned  with  the  plumes  of  others ;  "  he 
pilfers  from  ^Eschylus,  Boccaccio,  Bandello,  Hol- 
linshed,  Belleforest,  Benoist  de  St.  Maur;  he  pil- 
fers from  Layamon,  Robert  of  Gloucester,  Robert 
of  Wace,  Peter  of  Langtoft,  Robert  Manning,  John 
de  Mandeville,  Sackville,  Spenser;  he  pilfers  from 
the  '  Arcadia '  of  Sidney ;  he  pilfers  from  the 
anonymous  work  called  '  The  True  Chronicle  of 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

King  Leir ;  '  he  pilfers  from  Rowley,  in  *  The 
Troublesome  Reign  of  King  John'  (1591),  the 
character  of  the  bastard  Faulconridge.  Shake- 
speare plunders  Robert  Greene ;  Shakespeare  plun- 
ders Dekker  and  Chettle.  Hamlet  is  not  his; 
Othello  is  not  his.  As  for  Green,  Shakespeare 
is  for  him  not  only  "a  bumbaster  of  blank  verses," 
a  "  Shake-scene,"  a  Joh&nnts  factotum  (allusion  to 
his  former  position  as  call-boy  and  supernumer- 
ary) ;  Shakespeare  is  a  wild  beast.  Crow  no 
longer  suffices;  Shakespeare  is  promoted  to  a 
tiger.  Here  is  the  text :  "  Tyger's  heart  wrapt  in 
a  player's  hide"  ('A  Groats-worth  of  Wit,'  I592).1 

Thomas  Rymer  thus  judges  '  Othello  : '  "  The 
moral  of  this  story  is  certainly  very  instructive; 
it  is  a  warning  to  good  housewives  to  look  after 
their  linen."  Then  the  same  Rymer  condescends 
to  give  up  joking,  and  to  take  Shakespeare  in 
earnest:  "What  edifying  and  useful  impression 
can  the  audience  receive  from  such  poetry?  To 

1  It  may  be  well  to  transcribe  the  familiar  passage  referred  to, 
noting  that  Hugo  here  distinguishes  between  Robert  Greene,  the 
dramatist  (whom  he  re-christens  Thomas),  and  an  imaginary  critic, 
"Green."  In  the  'Groats-worth  of  Wit  bought  with  a  Million 
of  Repentaunce,'  written  by  the  unhappy  Greene  upon  his  death-bed, 
he  warns  his  fellow  playwrights  of  certain  "  puppits  that  speak 
from  our  mouths,  those  anticks  garnished  in  our  colours."  "  Yes, 
trust  them  not ;  for  there  is  an  upstart  crow,  beautified  with  our 
feathers,  that  with  his  Tygers  heart  "wrapt  in  a  players  hide,  sup- 
poses he  is  as  well  able  to  bumbast  out  a  blanke  verse  as  the  best 
of  you ;  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes  Factotum*  is  in  his  owne 
conceit  the  onely  Shake-scene  in  a  countrie."  Greene's  reference 
to  the  line  of  '  Henry  VI.'  Part  III.,  "  O  tiger's  heart,  wrapped  in 
a  woman's  hide  !  "  is  of  extreme  interest,  says  Halliwell-Phillipps, 
as  including  the  earliest  record  of  words  composed  by  the  great 
dramatist.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  19 1 

what  can  this  poetry  serve,  unless  it  is  to  mislead 
our  good  sense,  to  throw  our  thoughts  into  dis- 
order, to  trouble  our  brain,  to  pervert  pur  instincts, 
to  crack  our  imaginations,  to  corrupt  our  taste, 
and  to  fill  our  heads  with  vanity,  confusion,  clatter, 
and  nonsense?"  This  was  printed  some  four- 
score years  after  the  death  of  Shakespeare,  in  1693. 
All  the  critics  and  all  the  connoisseurs  were  of  one 
opinion. 

Here  are  some  of  the  reproaches  unanimously 
addressed  to  Shakespeare:  Conceits,  word-play, 
puns.  Improbability,  extravagance,  absurdity. 
Obscenity.  Puerility.  Bombast,  emphasis,  exag- 
geration. False  glitter,  pathos.  Far-fetched  ideas, 
affected  style.  Abuse  of  contrast  and  metaphor. 
Subtilty.  Immorality.  Writing  for  the  mob. 
Pandering  to  the  rabble.  Delighting  in  the  horrible. 
Want  of  grace.  Want  of  charm.  Overreaching 
his  aim.  Having  too  much  wit.  Having  no  wit 
Overdoing  his  work. 

"  This  Shakespeare  is  a  rude  and  savage  mind," 
says  Lord  Shaftesbury.  Dryden  adds,  "  Shake- 
speare is  unintelligible."  Mrs.  Lennox  applies  the 
ferule  to  Shakespeare  as  follows :  "  This  poet 
alters  historical  truth."  A  German  critic  of  1680, 
Bentheim,  feels  himself  disarmed,  because,  says 
he,  "  Shakespeare  is  a  mind  full  of  drollery."  Ben 
Jonson,  Shakespeare's  prottgt,  relates  (ix.  175, 
Gifford's  edition)  :  "  I  recollect  that  the  players  of- 
ten mentioned  it  as  an  honor  to  Shakespeare  that, 
in  his  writing,  whatsoever  he  penned,  he  never 
blotted  out  a  line ;  I  answered,  '  Would  to  God  he 
had  blotted  out  a  thousand  !  '  "  This  wish,  more- 


192  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

over,  was  granted  by  the  worthy  publishers  of 
1623,  Blount  and  Jaggard.  They  struck  out  of 
'  Hamlet '  alone,  two  hunjdred  lines ;  they  cut  out 
two  hundred  and  twenty  lines  of  '  King  Lear/1 
Garrick  played  at  Drury  Lane  only  the  '  King 
Lear '  of  Nahum  Tate.2  Listen  again  to  Rymer : 
"  *  Othello'  is  a  sanguinary  farce  without  wit." 
Dr.  Johnson  adds :  "  'Julius  Caesar,'  a  cold  tragedy, 
and  lacking  the  power  to  move  the  public."  "  I 
think,"  says  Warburton,  in  a  letter  to  the  Dean  of 
St.  Asaph,  "  that  Swift  has  much  more  wit  than 
Shakespeare,  and  that  the  comic  in  Shakespeare, 
altogether  low  as  it  is,  is  very  inferior  to  the  comic 
in  Shadwell."  As  for  the  witches  in  '  Macbeth/ 
"  nothing  equals,"  says  that  critic  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  Forbes,  repeated  by  a  critic  of  the 
nineteenth,  "  the  absurdity  of  such  a  spectacle." 
Samuel  Foote,  the  author  of  '  The  Young  Hypo- 
crite/ makes  this  declaration:  "The  comic  in 
Shakespeare  is  too  heavy,  and  does  not  make  one 
laugh;  it  is  buffoonery  without  wit"  Finally, 
Pope,  in  1725,  finds  a  reason  why  Shakespeare 
wrote  his  dramas,  and  exclaims,  "  One  must  eat !  " 

After  these  words  of  Pope,  one  cannot  under- 
stand  with   what   object    Voltaire,    aghast    about 

1  This  statement  is  very  wild.     Readers   unversed  in  literary 
history  should  consult  Dowden,  or  Halliwell-Phillipps,  or  Mrs. 
Caroline  H.  Ball's  popularization  of  the  latter,  entitled,  '  What  we 
really  know  about  Shakespeare.'  —  TR. 

2  Furness  says  that  Tate's  version  of  '  Lear '  held  the  stage  for 
a  hundred  and  sixty  years,  and  in  it  all  the  greatest  actors  won 
applause.     Macready  ('Reminiscences')  says  it   "was  the   only 
acting  copy  from  the  date  of  its  production  until  the  restoration  of 
Shakespeare's  tragedy  at  Covent  Garden  in  1838."  — TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  1 93 

Shakespeare,  writes  :  "  Shakespeare,  whom  the 
English  take  for  a  Sophocles,  flourished  about  the 
time  of  Lopez  \_Lope,  if  you  please,  Voltaire]  de 
Vega."  Voltaire  adds:  "You  are  not  ignorant  that 
in  *  Hamlet '  the  diggers  prepare  a  grave,  drinking, 
singing  ballads,  and  cracking  over  the  heads  of 
dead  people  jokes  appropriate  to  men  of  their  pro- 
fession." And,  concluding,  he  characterizes  the 
whole  scene  by  the  term  "  these  fooleries."  He 
characterizes  Shakespeare's  pieces  as  "  monstrous 
farces  called  tragedies,"  and  completes  the  judg- 
ment by  declaring  that  Shakespeare  "  has  ruined 
the  English  theatre." 

Marmontel  comes  to  see  Voltaire  at  Ferney. 
Voltaire  is  in  bed,  holding  a  book  in  his  hand  ; 
all  at  once  he  rises  up,  throws  the  book  away, 
stretches  his  thin  legs  out  of  the  bed,  and  cries  to 
Marmontel :  "  Your  Shakespeare  is  a  Huron  In- 
dian." "  He  is  not  my  Shakespeare  at  all,"  replies 
Marmontel. 

Shakespeare  was  an  occasion  for  Voltaire  to 
show  his  skill  at  the  target.  Voltaire  missed  it 
rarely.  Voltaire  shot  at  Shakespeare  as  peasants 
shoot  at  a  goose.  It  was  Voltaire  who  had  opened 
in  France  the  fire  against  this  Barbarian.  He  nick- 
named him  the  "  Saint  Christopher  of  Tragic  Poets." 
He  said  to  Madame  de  Graffigny:  "Shakespeare 
for  a  jest."  He  said  to  Cardinal  de  Bernis,  "  Com- 
pose pretty  verses ;  deliver  us,  monsignor,  from 
plagues,  from  bigots,  from  the  Academy  of  the 
King  of  Prussia,  from  the  Bull  Unigenitus  and  its 
supporters,  from  the  convulsionists,  and  from  that 
ninny  Shakespeare.  Libera  nos,  Domine"  The 

13 


194  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

attitude  of  Freron  toward  Voltaire  has  in  the  eyes 
of  posterity  as  an  extenuating  circumstance  the 
attitude  of  Voltaire  toward  Shakespeare.  Never- 
theless, throughout  the  eighteenth  century  Voltaire 
gives  the  law.  The  moment  that  Voltaire  sneers  at 
Shakespeare,  Englishmen  of  wit,  such  as  my  Lord 
Marshal,  follow  suit.  Dr.  Johnson  admits  "  the  ig- 
norance and  vulgarity  "  of  Shakespeare.  Frederick 
II.  also  puts  in  a  word.  He  writes  to  Voltaire  in 
respect  of  Julius  Caesar:  "  You  have  done  well  in 
recasting,  according  to  principles,  the  formless 
piece  of  that  Englishman."  Thus  stood  Shake- 
speare in  the  last  century.  Voltaire  insults  him ; 
La  Harpe  protects  him :  "  Shakespeare  himself, 
coarse  as  he  was,  was  not  without  reading  and 
knowledge."  l 

In  our  days,  the  class  of  critics  of  whom  we 
have  just  seen  some  samples  have  not  lost  courage. 
Coleridge  speaks  of  '  Measure  for  Measure :  '  "  a 
painful  comedy,"  he  hints.  "  Revolting,"  says  Mr. 
Knight.  "  Disgusting,"  responds  Mr.  Hunter.2 

In  1804  the  author  of  one  of  those  idiotic  Uni- 
versal Biographies,  —  in  which  they  contrive  to 
relate  the  history  of  Calas  without  mentioning 
the  name  of  Voltaire,  and  to  which  governments, 
knowing  what  they  are  about,  grant  readily  their 
patronage  and  subsidies,  —  a  certain  Delandine, 
feels  himself  called  upon  to  be  a  judge,  and  to 


1  La  Harpe, '  Introduction  to  the  Course  in  Literature.' 

2  Victor  Hugo  could  hardly  have  betrayed  with  more  charming 
simplicity  his  unique  and  delightful  ignorance  of  English  litera- 
ture than   by   thus  confusing  with  Shakespeare's   revilers    such 
devout  worshippers  as  Coleridge  and  Knight.  — TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  195 

pass  sentence  on  Shakespeare ;  and  after  having 
said  that  "  Shakespeare,  which  is  pronounced 
Chekspir,"  had,  in  his  youth,  "  stolen  the  deer 
of  a  nobleman,"  he  adds :  "  Nature  had  brought 
together  in  the  head  of  this  poet  the  highest  great- 
ness we  can  imagine,  with  the  lowest  coarseness, 
without  wit."  Lately  we  read  the  following  words, 
written  a  short  time  ago  by  an  eminent  dolt  who 
is  still  living  :  "  Second-rate  authors  and  inferior 
poets,  such  as  Shakespeare,"  etc. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  poet  is  necessarily  at  once  poet,  historian, 
and  philosopher.  Herodotus  and  Thales  are  in- 
cluded in  Homer.  Shakespeare,  likewise,  is  this 
triple  man.  He  is  besides,  a  painter,  a  painter 
upon  a  colossal  scale.  The  poet  in  reality  does 
more  than  relate,  he  exhibits.  Poets  have  in  them 
a  reflector,  observation,  and  a  condenser,  emotion ; 
thence  those  grand,  luminous  spectres  which  issue 
from  their  brain,  and  which  go  on  shining  forever 
against  the  murky  human  wall.  These  phantoms 
have  life.  To  have  an  existence  as  real  as  that  of 
Achilles  would  be  the  ambition  of  Alexander. 
Shakespeare  has  tragedy,  comedy,  fairy  scenes, 
hymn,  farce,  deep  divine  laughter,  terror  and 
horror,  —  in  one  word,  the  drama.  He  touches 
the  two  poles :  he  belongs  to  Olympus  and  to  the 
itinerant  show.  No  possibility  escapes  him.  When 


196  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

he  grasps  you,  you  are  subdued.  Do  not  expect 
pity  from  him.  His  cruelty  is  pathetic.  He  shows 
you  a  mother,  Constance,  the  mother  of  Arthur; 
and  when  he  has  brought  you  to  such  a  point  of 
tenderness  that  your  heart  is  as  her  heart,  he  kills 
the  child.  He  goes  farther  in  horror  even  than  his- 
tory, —  a  difficult  feat :  he  does  not  content  him- 
self with  killing  Rutland  and  driving  York  to 
despair ;  he  dips  in  the  blood  of  the  son  the  hand- 
kerchief with  which  he  wipes  the  father's  eyes. 
He  causes  Elegy  to  be  choked  by  the  Drama,  Des- 
demona  by  Othello.  No  respite  to  anguish :  genius 
is  inexorable.  It  has  its  law,  and  follows  it.  The 
mind  also  has  its  inclined  planes,  and  these  slopes 
determine  its  direction.  Shakespeare  flows  toward 
the  terrible.  Shakespeare,  ^Eschylus,  Dante,  are 
great  streams  of  human  emotion  pouring  from  the 
depth  of  their  cavern  the  urn  of  tears. 

The  poet  is  only  limited  by  his  aim ;  he  con- 
siders nothing  but  the  idea  to  be  worked  out;  he 
recognizes  no  sovereignty,  no  necessity,  save  the 
idea :  for  since  Art  emanates  from  the  Absolute, 
in  Art,  as  in  the  Absolute,  the  end  justifies  the 
means.  This  is,  it  may  be  said  in  passing,  one  of 
those  deviations  from  the  ordinary  terrestrial  law 
which  make  the  higher  criticism  muse  and  reflect, 
and  which  reveal  to  it  the  mysterious  side  of  Art. 
In  Art,  above  all,  is  visible  the  quid  divinum.  The 
poet  moves  in  his  work  as  Providence  in  its  own. 
He  excites,  dismays,  strikes ;  then  exalts  or  de- 
presses, often  in  inverse  ratio  to  your  expectation, 
ploughing  into  your  very  soul  through  surprise. 
Now,  consider.  Art,  like  the  Infinite,  has  a  Because 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  197 

superior  to  all  the  Whys.  Go  and  ask  of  the 
Ocean,  that  great  lyric  poet,  the  wherefore  of  a 
tempest.  What  seems  to  you  odious  or  absurd 
has  an  inner  reason  for  existing.  Ask  of  Job  why 
he  scrapes  the  pus  from  his  ulcer  with  a  potsherd, 
and  of  Dante  why  he  sews  with  a  thread  of  iron 
the  eyelids  of  the  ghosts  in  Purgatory,  making  the 
stitches  trickle  with  frightful  tears?1  Job  upon 
his  dungheap  continues  to  clean  his  sore  with  his 
potsherd,  and  Dante  goes  on  his  way.  It  is  the 
same  with  Shakespeare. 

His  sovereign  horrors  reign  and  force  themselves 
upon  you.  He  mingles  with  them,  when  he 
chooses,  the  charm,  the  august  charm,  of  the 
strong,  excelling  the  feeble  sweetness,  the  slender 
attraction,  of  Ovid  or  of  Tibullus,  as  the  Venus  of 
Milo  excels  the  Venus  of  Medici.  The  things  of 
the  unknown;  the  metaphysical  problems  which 
recede  beneath  the  diving  plummet ;  the  enigmas 
of  the  soul  and  of  Nature,  which  is  also  a  soul ;  the 
far-off  intuitions  of  the  eventual  included  in  des- 
tiny; the  amalgams  of  thought  and  event, —  can  be 
translated  into  delicate  traceries,  filling  poetry  with 
mysterious  and  exquisite  types,  the  more  lovely 
that  they  are  somewhat  sorrowful,  half  clinging 
to  the  invisible,  and  at  the  same  time  very  real, 
absorbed  by  the  shadow  behind  them,  and  yet 
endeavoring  to  give  you  pleasure.  Profound 
grace  does  exist. 

1  "  And  as  the  sun  does  not  reach  the  blind,  so  the  spirits  of 
which  I  was  just  speaking  have  not  the  gift  of  light.  An  iron 
wire  pierces  and  fastens  together  their  eyelids,  as  it  is  done  to  the 
wild  hawk  in  order  to  tame  it."  —  Purgatory,  canto  xiii. 


198  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Prettiness  combined  with  greatness  is  possible; 
it  is  found  in  Homer,  —  Astyanax  is  a  type  of 
it ;  but  the  profound  grace  of  which  we  speak  is 
something  more  than  this  epic  delicacy.  It  is 
complicated  with  a  certain  agitation,  and  hints  the 
infinite.  It  is  a  kind  of  irradiance  of  blended  light 
and  shade.  Modern  genius  alone  has  that  smiling 
profundity  which  discloses  the  abyss  while  veiling 
it  with  beauty. 

Shakespeare  possesses  this  grace,  —  the  very 
contrary  of  morbid  grace,  although  resembling  it, 
emanating,  as  it  also  does,  from  the  tomb.  Sorrow, 
the  deep  sorrow  of  the  drama,  which  is  but  the 
human  social  atmosphere  transferred  to  Art,  en- 
velops this  grace  and  this  horror. 

At  the  centre  of  his  work  is  Hamlet, — doubt; 
and  at  the  two  extremities,  love,  —  Romeo  and 
Othello,  the  whole  heart.  There  is  light  in  the 
folds  of  Juliet's  shroud,  but  only  blackness  in  the 
winding-sheet  of  Ophelia  disdained  and  of  Desde- 
mona  suspected.  These  two  innocents,  to  whom 
love  has  broken  faith,  cannot  be  consoled.  Desde- 
mona  sings  the  song  of  the  willow,  under  which  the 
water  sweeps  away  Ophelia.  They  are  sisters 
without  knowing  each  other,  and  kindred  souls, 
although  each  has  her  separate  drama.  The  willow 
trembles  over  them  both.  In  the  mysterious  song 
of  the  calumniated  woman  who  is  about  to  die, 
floats  the  dishevelled  shadow  of  the  drowned 
Ophelia. 

Shakespeare  in  philosophy  goes  at  times  deeper 
than  Homer.  Beyond  Priam  there  is  Lear;  to 
weep  at  ingratitude  is  worse  than  to  weep  at  death. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  199 

Homer  meets  envy  and  strikes  it  with  the  sceptre ; 
Shakespeare  gives  the  sceptre  to  the  envious,  and 
out  of  Thersites  creates  Richard  III.  Envy  is 
exposed  in  its  nakedness  all  the  more  strongly  for 
being  clothed  in  purple;  its  reason  for  existing 
is  then  visibly  altogether  in  itself:  envy  on  the 
throne,  —  what  more  striking? 

Deformity  in  the  person  of  the  tyrant  is  not 
enough  for  this  philosopher;  he  must  have  it  also 
in  the  shape  of  the  valet,  and  he  creates  Falstaff. 
The  dynasty  of  common-sense,  inaugurated  in 
Panurge,  continued  in  Sancho  Panza,  goes  wrong 
and  miscarries  in  Falstaff.  The  rock  which  this 
wisdom  splits  upon  is,  in  reality,  baseness.  Sancho 
Panza,  in  combination  with  the  ass,  is  one  with 
ignorance;  Falstaff — glutton,  poltroon,  savage, 
obscene,  a  human  face  and  belly  with  the  lower 
parts  of  the  brute  —  walks  on  the  four  hoofs  of 
turpitude  ;  Falstaff  is  the  centaur  man  and  pig. 

Shakespeare  is,  above  all,  imagination.  Now — 
and  this  is  a  truth  to  which  we  have  already 
alluded,  and  which  is  well  known  to  thinkers  — 
imagination  is  depth.  No  faculty  of  the  mind 
penetrates  and  plunges  deeper  than  imagination; 
it  is  the  great  diver.  Science,  reaching  the  lowest 
depths,  meets  imagination.  In  conic  sections,  in 
logarithms,  in  the  differential  and  integral  calculus, 
in  the  calculations  of  sonorous  waves,  in  the  ap- 
plication of  algebra  to  geometry,  the  imagination 
is  the  coefficient  of  calculation,  and  mathematics 
becomes  poetry.  I  have  no  faith  in  the  science 
of  stupid  men  of  learning. 

The  poet   philosophizes  because    he    imagines. 


200  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

That  is  why  Shakespeare  has  that  sovereign  man- 
agement of  reality  which  enables  him  to  have  his 
way  with  it.  And  his  very  whims  are  varieties 
of  the  true,  —  varieties  which  deserve  meditation. 
Does  not  destiny  resemble  a  constant  whim  ? 
Nothing  more  incoherent  in  appearance,  nothing 
less  connected,  nothing  worse  as  deduction.  Why 
crown  this  monster,  John?  Why  kill  that  child, 
Arthur?  Why  have  Joan  of  Arc  burned?  Why 
Monk  triumphant?  Why  Louis  XV.  happy?  Why 
Louis  XVI.  punished?  Let  the  logic  of  God  pass. 
It  is  from  that  logic  that  the  fancy  of  the  poet  is 
drawn.  Comedy  bursts  forth  in  the  midst  of  tears  ; 
the  sob  rises  out  of  laughter;  figures  mingle  and 
clash ;  massive  forms,  as  of  beasts,  pass  clumsily ; 
spectres  —  women,  perhaps,  perhaps  smoke  —  float 
about;  souls,  dragon-flies  of  the  shadow,  flies  of 
the  twilight,  flutter  among  all  those  black  reeds 
that  we  call  passions  and  events.  At  one  pole 
Lady  Macbeth,  at  the  other  Titania:  a  colossal 
thought,  and  an  immense  caprice. 

What  are  '  The  Tempest/  'Troilus  and  Cressida,' 
'The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona/  'The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor/  *  The  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream/  '  The  Winter's  Tale '  ?  They  are  fancy, 
arabesque  work.  The  arabesque  in  Art  is  the  same 
phenomenon  as  vegetation  in  Nature.  The  ara- 
besque sprouts,  grows,  knots,  exfoliates,  multiplies, 
becomes  green,  blooms,  and  entwines  itself  with 
every  dream.  The  arabesque  is  incommensurable ; 
it  has  a  strange  power  of  extension  and  enlarge- 
ment; it  fills  horizons,  and  opens  up  others;  it 
intercepts  the  luminous  background  by  innumer- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2OI 

able  interlacements ;  and  if  you  mingle  the  human 
face  with  these  entangled  branches,  the  whole 
thrills  you  and  makes  you  giddy.  Behind  the 
arabesque,  and  through  its  openings,  all  philosophy 
can  be  seen ;  vegetation  lives ;  man  becomes  pan- 
theistic ;  an  infinite  combination  takes  form  in  the 
finite ;  and  before  such  work,  in  which  are  blended 
the  impossible  and  the  true,  the  human  soul 
quivers  with  an  emotion  obscure,  and  yet  supreme. 

For  all  this,  the  edifice  ought  not  to  be  overrun 
by  vegetation,  nor  the  drama  by  arabesque. 

One  of  the  characteristics  of  genius  is  the  sin- 
gular union  of  faculties  the  most  distant.  To 
design  an  astragal  like  Ariosto,  then  to  scrutinize 
the  soul  like  Pascal,  —  such  are  -the  poet's  gifts. 
Man's  inner  tribunal  belongs  to  Shakespeare,  and 
he  finds  you  constant  surprises  there.  He  extracts 
from  human  consciousness  whatever  it  contains  of 
the  unforeseen.  Few  poets  surpass  him  in  this 
psychical  research.  Many  of  the  strangest  pecu- 
liarities of  the  human  mind  are  indicated  by  him. 
He  skilfully  makes  us  feel  the  simplicity  of  the 
metaphysical  fact  under  the  complication  of  the 
dramatic  fact.  That  which  the  human  creature 
does  not  acknowledge  to  himself,  the  obscure  thing 
that  he  begins  by  fearing  and  ends  by  desiring,  — 
such  is  the  point  of  junction  and  the  strange  place 
of  meeting  for  the  heart  of  the  virgin  and  the  heart 
of  the  murderer,  for  the  soul  of  Juliet  and  the 
soul  of  Macbeth ;  the  innocent  girl  fears  and  longs 
for  love,  just  as  the  wicked  man  for  ambition.  Peri- 
lous kisses  given  furtively  to  the  phantom,  now 
smiling,  and  anon  austere. 


2O2  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

To  all  this  prodigality  —  analysis,  synthesis,  cre- 
ation in  flesh  and  bone,  revery,  fancy,  science, 
metaphysics  —  add  history:  here  the  history  of 
historians,  there  the  history  of  the  tale.  This 
history  contains  specimens  of  everything:  of  the 
traitor,  from  Macbeth,  the  assassin  of  his  guest,  up 
to  Coriolanus,  the  assassin  of  his  country ;  of  the 
despot,  from  the  tyrant  brain,  Caesar,  to  the  tyrant 
belly,  Henry  VIII. ;  of  the  carnivore,  from  the 
lion  down  to  the  usurer.  One  may  say  to  Shy- 
lock,  "  Well  bitten,  Jew ! "  And  in  the  back- 
ground of  this  wonderful  drama,  on  the  desert 
heath,  there  appear  in  the  twilight  three  black 
shapes  promising  crowns  to  murderers,  —  sil- 
houettes in  which  Hesiod,  through  the  vista  of 
ages,  perhaps  recognizes  the  Parcae.  Inordinate 
force,  exquisite  charm,  epic  ferocity,  pity,  creative 
faculty,  gayety  (that  lofty  gayety  unintelligible  to 
narrow  understandings),  sarcasm  (the  cutting  lash 
for  the  wicked),  sidereal  grandeur,  microscopic 
tenuity,  a  universe  of  poetry,  with  its  zenith  and 
its  nadir,  the  vast  whole,  the  profound  detail,  — 
nothing  is  wanting  in  this  mind.  One  feels,  on 
approaching  the  work  of  this  man,  a  vast  wind 
blowing  off  the  shores  of  a  world.  The  irradiation 
of  genius  on  every  side, — such  is  Shakespeare. 
"  Totus  in  antithesi,"  says  Jonathan  Forbes. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  203 


CHAPTER    III. 

ONE  of  the  characteristics  which  distinguish  men 
of  genius  from  ordinary  minds,  is  that  they  have  a 
double  reflection, — just  as  the  carbuncle,  according 
to  Jerome  Cardan,  differs  from  crystal  and  glass  in 
having  a  double  refraction. 

Genius  and  carbuncle,  double  reflection,  double 
refraction :  the  same  phenomenon  in  the  moral  and 
in  the  physical  order. 

Does  this  diamond  of  diamonds,  the  carbuncle, 
exist?  It  is  a  question.  Alchemy  says  yes ;  chem- 
istry searches.  As  for  genius,  it  does  exist.  It  is 
sufficient  to  read  one  verse  of  yEschylus  or  Juvenal 
in  order  to  find  this  carbuncle  of  the  human  brain. 

This  phenomenon  of  double  reflection  raises  to 
the  highest  power  in  men  of  genius  what  rheto- 
ricians call  "  antithesis ;  "  that  is  to  say,  the  sove- 
reign faculty  of  seeing  the  two  sides  of  things. 

I  dislike  Ovid,  —  that  proscribed  coward,  that 
licker  of  bloody  hands,  that  fawning  cur  of  exile, 
that  far-away  flatterer  disdained  by  the  tyrant, — 
and  I  hate  the  literary  elegance  of  which  Ovid  is 
full ;  but  I  do  not  confound  that  elegance  with  the 
powerful  antithesis  of  Shakespeare. 

Complete  minds  have  everything.  Shakespeare 
contains  Gongora,  as  Michael  Angelo  contains  Ber- 
nini; and  there  are  on  that  subject  ready-made 
sentences :  "  Michael  Angelo  is  a  mannerist,  Shake- 
speare is  antithetical."  These  are  the  formulas  of 


204  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE. 

the   school  which  express  the  petty  view  of  the 
great  question  of  contrast  in  Art. 

Totus  in  antithesi.  Shakespeare  is  all  in  an- 
tithesis. Certainly  it  is  not  very  just  to  see  the 
entire  man,  and  such  a  man,  in  one  of  his  qualities. 
But,  with  this  reservation,  let  us  observe  that  this 
saying,  totus  in  antithesi,  which  pretends  to  be  a 
criticism,  might  be  simply  a  statement  of  fact. 
Shakespeare,  in  fact,  has  deserved,  like  all  truly 
great  poets,  this  praise,  —  that  he  is  like  creation. 
What  is  creation?  Good  and  evil,  joy  and  sorrow, 
man  and  woman,  roar  and  song,  eagle  and  vulture, 
lightning  and  ray,  bee  and  drone,  mountain  and 
valley,  love  and  hate,  the  medal  and  its  reverse, 
beauty  and  ugliness,  star  and  swine,  high  and  low. 
Nature  is  the  eternal  bifrons.  And  this  antithesis, 
whence  comes  the  antiphrasis,  is  found  in  all  the 
habits  of  man ;  it  is  in  fable,  in  history,  in  philoso- 
phy, in  language.  Are  you  the  Furies,  they  call 
you  Eumenides,  the  Charming;  do  you  kill  your 
brother,  you  are  called  Philadelphus;  kill  your 
father,  they  will  call  you  Philopator;  be  a  great 
general,  they  will  call  you  the  little  corporal.  The 
antithesis  of  Shakespeare  is  the  universal  antithesis, 
present  always  and  everywhere ;  it  is  the  ubiquity 
of  opposites,  —  life  and  death,  cold  and  heat,  just 
and  unjust,  angel  and  demon,  heaven  and  earth, 
flower  and  lightning,  melody  and  harmony,  spirit 
and  flesh,  high  and  low,  ocean  and  envy,  foam  and 
slaver,  hurricane  and  whistle,  self  and  not-self, 
objective  and  subjective,  marvel  and  miracle,  type 
and  monster,  soul  and  shadow.  It  is  from  this 
sombre,  flagrant  quarrel,  from  this  endless  ebb  and 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2O$ 

flow,  from  this  perpetual  yes  and  no,  from  this 
irreconcilable  opposition,  from  this  vast,  perma- 
nent antagonism,  that  Rembrandt  obtains  his  clare- 
obscure,  and  Piranesi  his  vertiginous  effects. 

Before  removing  this    antithesis  from  Art,  we 
should  begin  by  removing  it  from  Nature. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  HE  is  reserved  and  discreet.  You  may  trust 
him;  he  will  take  no  advantage.  He  has,  above 
all,  a  very  rare  quality,  —  he  is  sober." 

What  is  this  —  a  recommendation  for  a  domestic? 
No.  It  is  a  eulogy  upon  a  writer.  A  certain 
school,  called  "  serious,"  has  in  our  days  hoisted 
this  motto  for  poetry:  sobriety.  It  seems  that 
the  only  question  should  be  to  preserve  litera- 
ture from  indigestion.  Formerly  the  device  was 
''fecundity  and  power;  "  to-day  it  is  "barley-gruel." 
You  are  in  the  resplendent  garden  of  the  Muses, 
where  those  divine  blossoms  of  the  mind  that  the 
Greeks  call  "  tropes  "  blow  in  riot  and  luxuriance 
on  every  branch  ;  everywhere  the  ideal  image, 
everywhere  the  thought-flower,  everywhere  fruits, 
metaphors,  golden  apples,  perfumes,  colors,  rays, 
strophes,  wonders  :  touch  nothing,  be  discreet. 
It  is  by  plucking  nothing  there  that  the  poet  is 
known.  Be  of  the  temperance  society.  A  good 
critical  book  is  a  treatise  on  the  dangers  of  drink- 
ing. Do  you  wish  to  compose  the  Iliad,  put  your- 


206  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

self  on  diet.  Ah !  them  mayest  well  open  wide 
thine  eyes,  old  Rabelais ! 

Lyricism  is  heady ;  the  beautiful  intoxicates,  the 
noble  inebriates,  the  ideal  causes  giddiness.  One 
who  makes  it  his  starting-point  no  longer  knows 
what  he  is  about.  When  you  have  walked  among 
the  stars,  you  are  capable  of  refusing  an  under- 
prefecture ;  you  are  no  longer  in  your  right  mind ; 
they  might  offer  you  a  seat  in  the  senate  of  Do- 
mitian,  and  you  would  refuse  it;  you  no  longer 
render  to  Caesar  what  is  due  to  Caesar ;  you  have 
reached  such  a  point  of  mental  alienation  that  you 
will  not  even  salute  the  Lord  Incitatus,  consul  and 
horse.  See  what  is  the  result  of  your  having  been 
drinking  in  that  shocking  place,  the  Empyrean! 
You  become  proud,  ambitious,  disinterested.  Now 
be  sober.  It  is  forbidden  to  haunt  the  tavern  of 
the  sublime. 

Liberty  means  libertinism.  To  restrain  yourself 
is  well ;  to  emasculate  yourself  is  better. 

Pass  your  life  in  holding  in. 

Sobriety,  decorum,  respect  for  authority,  irre- 
proachable toilet.  No  poetry  unless  it  is  fashion- 
ably dressed.  An  uncombed  savannah,  a  lion  which 
does  not  pare  its  nails,  an  unregulated  torrent,  the 
navel  of  the  sea  which  exposes  itself  to  the  sight, 
the  cloud  which  forgets  itself  so  far  as  to  show 
Aldebaran  —  Oh  !  shocking.  The  wave  foams  on 
the  rock,  the  cataract  vomits  into  the  gulf,  Juvenal 
spits  on  the  tyrant.  Fie  ! 

We  like  too  little  better  than  too  much.  No 
exaggeration.  Henceforth  the  rose-bush  is  to  be 
required  to  count  its  roses ;  the  meadow  to  be 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2O? 

requested  not  to  be  so  prodigal  of  daisies ;  the 
spring  to  be  commanded  to  calm  itself.  The  nests 
are  rather  too  prolific.  Attention,  groves !  not  so 
many  warblers,  if  you  please.  The  Milky  Way 
will  have  the  goodness  to  number  its  stars;  there 
are  a  good  many. 

Take  example  from  the  big  Cereus  serpentaria 
of  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  which  blooms  but  once 
in  fifty  years :  that  is  a  flower  truly  respectable. 

A  true  critic  of  the  sober  school  is  that  garden- 
keeper  who,  to  the  question,  "  Have  you  any  night- 
ingales in  your  trees?"  replied,  "Ah  !  don't  mention 
it;  during  the  whole  month  of  May  these  ugly 
fowls  have  been  doing  nothing  but  bawl." 

M.  Suard  gave  to  Marie  Joseph  Chenier  this 
certificate:  "  His  style  has  the  great  merit  of  not 
containing  comparisons."  In  our  days  we  have 
seen  that  singular  eulogium  reproduced.  This 
reminds  us  that  a  great  professor  of  the  Restora- 
tion, indignant  at  the  comparisons  and  figures 
which  abound  in  the  prophets,  put  a  crusher  on 
Isaiah,  Daniel,  and  Jeremiah,  with  this  profound 
apothegm :  "  The  whole  Bible  is  in  like"  An- 
other, a  greater  professor  still,  was  the  author  of 
this  saying,  still  celebrated  at  the  ficole  Normale : 
"  I  toss  Juvenal  back  upon  the  romantic  dunghill." 
Of  what  crime  was  Juvenal  guilty?  Of  the  same 
crime  as  Isaiah ;  namely,  of  being  fond  of  express- 
ing the  idea  by  image.  Shall  we  return,  little  by 
little,  in  the  walks  of  learning,  to  metonymy  as  a 
term  of  chemistry,  and  to  the  opinion  of  Pradon 
touching  metaphor? 

One   would   suppose,   from   the    demands    and 


208  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

clamors  of  the  doctrinaire  school,  that  it  had  to 
furnish,  at  its  own  expense,  the  whole  supply  of 
the  metaphors  and  figures  that  poets  may  use,  and 
that  it  felt  itself  ruined  by  spendthrifts  like  Pin- 
dar, Aristophanes,  Ezekiel,  Plautus,  and  Cervantes. 
This  school  puts  under  lock  and  key  passions, 
sentiments,  the  human  heart,  reality,  the  ideal,  life. 
It  looks  with  dismay  upon  men  of  genius,  hides 
from  them  everything,  and  says,  "  How  greedy 
they  are  !  "  It  has,  accordingly,  invented  for  wri- 
ters this  superlative  praise:  "He  is  temperate." 

On  all  these  points,  vestry-room  criticism  frater- 
nizes with  doctrinaire  criticism.  The  prude  and 
the  devotee  are  cheek-by-jowl. 

A  curious  bashful  fashion  tends  to  prevail.  We 
blush  at  the  coarse  manner  in  which  grenadiers 
meet  death.  Rhetoric  has  for  heroes  modest  vine- 
leaves  termed  "  periphrases."  It  is  assumed  that  the 
bivouac  speaks  like  the  convent;  the  talk  of  the 
guard-room  is  a  calumny.  A  veteran  drops  his  eyes 
at  the  recollection  of  Waterloo,  and  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  is  given  to  these  downcast  eyes. 
Certain  sayings  which  are  in  history,  have  no  right 
to  be  historical ;  and  it  is  well  understood,  for 
example,  that  the  gendarme  who  fired  a  pistol  at 
Robespierre  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  rejoiced  in  the 
name  "  The-guard-dies-and-never-surrenders."  1 

From  the  combined  effort  of  the  two  schools  of 
criticism,  guardians  of  public  tranquillity,  there 

1  It  is  said  that  an  indecent  word  of  Cambronne  (a  commander 
of  the  Old  Guard  at  Waterloo),  in  answer  to  the  summons  to  sur- 
render, was  translated  by  some  big-wig  historian  into  this  bit  of 
heroic  claptrap.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  209 

results  a  salutary  reaction.  This  reaction  has  al- 
ready produced  some  specimens  of  poets,  —  steady, 
well-bred,  prudent,  whose  style  always  keeps  good 
hours ;  who  never  indulge  in  an  outing  with  those 
mad  creatures,  Ideas ;  who  are  never  met  at  the 
corner  of  a  wood,  solus  cum  sold,  with  Revery,  that 
gypsy  girl ;  who  are  incapable  of  having  relations 
either  with  Imagination,  dangerous  vagabond,  or 
with  the  bacchante  Inspiration,  or  with  the  grisette 
Fancy ;  who  have  never  in  their  lives  given  a  kiss 
to  that  beggarly  chit,  the  Muse ;  who  never  sleep 
away  from  home,  and  who  are  honored  with  the 
esteem  of  their  doorkeeper,  Nicholas  Boileau.  If 
Polyhymnia  goes  by  with  her  hair  floating  a  little, 
what  a  scandal !  Quick  !  they  call  the  hairdresser. 
M.  de  la  Harpe  comes  hastily.  These  two  sister 
schools  of  criticism,  that  of  the  doctrinaire  and 
that  of  the  sacristan,  undertake  to  educate.  They 
bring  up  little  writers.  They  keep  a  place  to  wean 
them, —  a  boarding-school  for  juvenile  reputations. 

Thence  a  discipline,  a  literature,  and  art.  Fall 
into  line,  —  right  dress  !  Society  must  be  saved 
in  literature  as  well  as  politics.  Every  one  knows 
that  poetry  is  a  frivolous,  insignificant  thing,  child- 
ishly occupied  in  seeking  rhymes,  barren,  vain ; 
consequently  nothing  is  more  formidable.  It  be- 
hooves us  to  tie  up  the  thinkers  securely.  To  the 
kennel  with  him !  He  is  dangerous !  What  is 
a  poet?  For  honor,  nothing;,  for  persecution, 
everything. 

This  race  of  writers  requires  repression;  it  is 
useful  to  have  recourse  to  the  secular  arm.  The 
means  vary.  From  time  to  time  a  good  banish- 
14 


2IO  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

ment  is  expedient.  The  list  of  exiled  writers  opens 
with  yEschylus,  and  does  not  close  with  Voltaire. 
Each  century  has  its  link  in  the  chain.  But  there 
must  be  at  least  a  pretext  for  exile,  banishment, 
and  proscription.  Exile  cannot  be  applied  in  all 
cases.  It  is  rather  unhandy;  it  is  important  to 
have  a  lighter  weapon  for  every-day  skirmishing. 
A  state  criticism,  duly  sworn  and  accredited,  can 
render  service.  To  organize  the  persecution  of 
writers  is  not  a  bad  thing.  To  entrap  the  pen  by 
the  pen  is  ingenious.  Why  not  have  literary 
policemen? 

Good  taste  is  a  precaution  taken  to  keep  the 
peace.  Sober  writers  are  the  counterpart  of  pru- 
dent electors.  Inspiration  is  suspected  of  love  for 
liberty.  Poetry  is  rather  outside  of  legality ;  there 
is,  therefore,  an  official  art,  the  offspring  of  official 
criticism. 

A  whole  special  rhetoric  proceeds  from  these 
premises.  Nature  has  in  this  particular  art  but  a 
narrow  entrance,  and  goes  in  through  the  side- 
door.  Nature  is  infected  with  demagogism.  The 
elements  are  suppressed,  as  being  in  bad  form  and 
making  too  much  uproar.  The  equinoctial  storm 
is  guilty  of  trespass ;  the  squall  is  a  midnight  row. 
The  other  day,  at  the  School  of  Fine  Arts,  a  pupil- 
painter  having  caused  the  wind  to  lift  up  the  folds 
of  a  mantle  during  a  storm,  a  local  professor, 
shocked  at  this  disordered  apparel,  said :  "  Style 
does  not  admit  of  wind." 

Moreover,  reaction  does  not  despair.  We  get 
on ;  some  progress  is  made.  A  ticket  of  confes- 
sion sometimes  gets  its  bearer  admitted  into  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  211 

Academy.  Jules  Janin,  Theophile  Gautier,  Paul 
de  Saint- Victor,  Littre,  Renan,  please  to  recite 
your  credo. 

But  that  does  not  suffice;  the  evil  is  deep- 
rooted.  The  ancient  Catholic  society  and  the 
ancient  legitimate  literature  are  threatened.  Dark- 
ness is  in  peril.  To  arms  against  the  new  gen- 
erations !  To  arms  against  the  modern  spirit ! 
And  down  with  Democracy,  the  daughter  of 
Philosophy ! 

Cases  of  rabidness  —  that 'is  to  say,  works  of 
genius  —  are  to  be  feared.  Hygienic  prescriptions 
are  renewed.  The  public  high-road  is  evidently 
badly  watched.  It  appears  that  there  are  some 
poets  wandering  about.  The  prefect  of  police,  a 
negligent  man,  allows  some  spirits  to  rove.  What 
is  Authority  thinking  of?  Let  us  take  care.  There 
is  danger  lest  men's  minds  may  be  bitten.  Indeed, 
the  rumor  is  confirmed  that  Shakespeare  has  been 
met  without  a  muzzle  on. 

This  Shakespeare  without  a  muzzle  is  the  pres- 
ent translation.1 


CHAPTER  V. 

IF  ever  a  man  was  undeserving  of  the  good 
character,  "  he  is  sober,"  2  it  is  most  certainly  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare.  Shakespeare  is  one  of  the 

1  The  Complete  Works  of  Shakespeare,   translated  by  Fran- 
9ois  Victor  Hugo. 

2  See  the  beginning  of  the  preceding  chapter.—  TR. 


212  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

worst  cases  that  serious  aesthetics  ever  had  to 
regulate. 

Shakespeare  is  fertility,  force,  exuberance,  the 
swelling  breast,  the  foaming  cup,  the  brimming 
trough,  sap  in  excess,  lava  in  torrents,  the  univer- 
sal rain  of  life,  everything  by  thousands,  everything 
by  millions,  no  reticence,  no  ligature,  no  economy, 
the  inordinate  and  tranquil  prodigality  of  the 
creator.  To  those  who  fumble  in  the  bottom  of 
their  pockets,  the  inexhaustible  seems  insane. 
Will  it  stop  soon?  Never.  Shakespeare  is  the 
sower  of  dazzling  wonders.  At  every  turn,  an 
image;  at  every  turn,  contrast;  at  every  turn, 
light  and  darkness. 

The  poet,  we  have  said,  is  Nature.  Subtle, 
minute,  keen,  microscopical  like  Nature,  and  yet 
vast.  Not  discreet,  not  reserved,  not  parsimoni- 
ous ;  magnificently  simple.  Let  us  explain  this 
word  "  simple." 

Sobriety  in  poetry  is  poverty;  simplicity  is 
grandeur.  To  give  to  each  thing  the  quantity  of 
space  which  fits  it,  neither  more  nor  less :  this 
is  simplicity.  Simplicity  is  justice.  The  whole 
law  of  taste  is  in  that.  Each  thing  put  in  its  own 
place  and  spoken  with  its  own  word.  On  the  sin- 
gle condition  that  a  certain  latent  equilibrium  is 
maintained  and  a  certain  mysterious  proportion  is 
preserved,  simplicity  may  be  found  in  the  most 
stupendous  complication,  either  in  the  style  or  in 
the  ensemble.  These  are  the  arcana  of  great  art. 
The  higher  criticism  alone,  which  takes  its  starting- 
point  from  enthusiasm,  penetrates  and  compre- 
hends these  profound  laws.  Opulence,  profusion, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  21$ 

dazzling  radiancy,  may  be  simplicity.  The  sun  is 
simple. 

Such  simplicity  evidently  does  not  resemble  the 
simplicity  recommended  by  Le  Batteux,  the  Abbe 
d'Aubignac,  and  Father  Bouhours. 

Whatever  may  be  the  abundance,  whatever  may 
be  the  entanglement,  even  were  it  perplexing,  con- 
fused, and  inextricable,  all  that  is  true  is  simple. 
The  only  form  of  simplicity  recognized  by  Art  is 
the  simplicity  that  is  profound. 

Simplicity,  being  true,  is  artless.  Artlessness  is 
the  countenance  of  truth.  Shakespeare  is  simple 
in  the  grand  manner ;  he  is  infatuated  with  it :  but 
petty  simplicity  is  unknown  to  him. 

The  simplicity  which  is  impotence,  the  simpli- 
city which  is  meagreness,  the  simplicity  which  is 
short-winded,  is  a  case  for  pathology.  A  hospital 
ticket  suits  it  better  than  a  ride  on  the  hippogriff. 

I  admit  that  the  hump  of  Thersites  is  simple; 
but  the  pectoral  muscles  of  Hercules  are  simple 
also.  I  prefer  this  simplicity  to  the  other. 

The  simplicity  proper  to  poetry  may  be  as 
bushy  as  the  oak.  Does  the  oak  happen  to  pro- 
duce on  you  the  effect  of  a  Byzantine  and  of  a 
delicate  being?  Its  innumerable  antitheses, — 
gigantic  trunk  and  small  leaves,  rough  bark  and 
velvet  mosses,  absorption  of  rays  and  lavishness  of 
shade,  crowns  for  heroes  and  mast  for  swine,  —  are 
they  marks  of  affectation,  corruption,  subtlety,  and 
bad  taste?  Could  the  oak  be  too  witty?  could  the 
oak  belong  to  the  H6tel  Rambouillet?  could  the 
oak  be  a  finical  prude?  could  the  oak  be  tainted 
with  Gongorism?  could  the  oak  belong  to  an  age 


214  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

of  decadence?  Is  it  possible  that  all  simplicity, 
sancta  simplicitas,  is  concentrated  in  the  cabbage  ? 

Refinement,  excess  of  wit,  affectation,  Congo rism, 
—  all  that  has  been  hurled  at  Shakespeare's  head. 
They  say  that  these  are  the  faults  of  littleness,  and 
they  hasten  to  reproach  the  giant  with  them. 

But  then  this  Shakespeare  respects  nothing ;  he 
goes  straight  on,  putting  out  of  breath  those  who 
wish  to  follow  him.  He  strides  over  proprieties,  he 
overthrows  Aristotle,  he  spreads  havoc  among 
the  Jesuits,  the  Methodists,  the  Purists,  and  the 
Puritans ;  he  puts  Loyola  to  disorderly  rout,  and 
upsets  Wesley;  he  is  valiant,  bold,  enterprising, 
militant,  direct.  His  inkstand  smokes  like  a  crater. 
He  is  always  laborious,  ready,  spirited,  disposed, 
pressing  forward.  Pen  in  hand,  his  brow  blazing, 
he  goes  on,  driven  by  the  demon  of  genius.  The 
stallion  is  over-demonstrative;  there  are  jack- 
mules  passing  by,  to  whom  this  is  displeasing.  To 
be  prolific  is  to  be  aggressive.  A  poet  like  Isaiah, 
like  Juvenal,  like  Shakespeare,  is,  in  truth,  exorbi- 
tant. By  all  that  is  holy,  some  attention  ought 
to  be*  paid  to  others ;  one  man  has  no  right  to 
everything !  What !  virility  always,  inspiration 
everywhere;  as  many  metaphors  as  the  meadow, 
as  many  antitheses  as  the  oak,  as  many  contrasts 
and  depths  as  the  universe ;  incessant  generation, 
pubescence,  hymen,  gestation ;  a  vast  unity  with 
exquisite  and  robust  detail,  living  communion,  fe- 
cundation, plenitude,  production  !  It  is  too  much ; 
it  infringes  the  rights  of  neuters. 

For  nearly  three  centuries  Shakespeare,  this 
poet  all  brimming  with  virility,  has  been  looked 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  21$ 

upon  by  sober  critics  with  that  discontented  air 
which  certain  bereaved  spectators  must  have  in  the 
seraglio. 

Shakespeare  has  no  reserve,  no  restraint,  no 
limit,  no  blank.  What  is  wanting  in  him  is  that 
he  wants  nothing.  He  needs  no  savings-bank.  He 
does  not  keep  Lent.  He  overflows  like  vegetation, 
like  germination,  like  light,  like  flame.  Yet  this 
does  not  hinder  him  from  thinking  of  you,  specta- 
tor or  reader,  from  preaching  to  you,  from  giving 
you  advice,  from  being  your  friend,  like  the  first 
good-natured  La  Fontaine  you  meet,  and  from 
rendering  you  small  services.  You  can  warm  your 
hands  at  the  conflagration  he  kindles. 

Othello,  Romeo,  lago,  Macbeth,  Shylock,  Rich- 
ard III.,  Julius  Caesar,  Oberon,  Puck,  Ophelia, 
Desdemona,  Juliet,  Titania,  men,  women,  witches, 
fairies,  souls,  —  Shakespeare  is  the  grand  dis- 
tributor ;  take,  take,  take,  all  of  you !  Do  you 
want  more  ?  Here  is  Ariel,  Parolles,  Macduff, 
Prospero,  Viola,  Miranda,  Caliban.  More  yet  ? 
Here  is  Jessica,  Cordelia,  Cressida,  Portia,  Braban- 
tio,  Polonius,  Horatio,  Mercutio,  Imogen,  Panda- 
rus  of  Troy,  Bottom,  Theseus.  Ecce  Dens  !  It  is 
the  poet,  he  offers  himself:  who  will  have  me  ? 
He  gives,  scatters,  squanders  himself  ;  he  is  never 
empty.  Why  ?  He  cannot  be.  Exhaustion  is 
impossible  with  him.  In  him  is  something  of  the 
fathomless.  He  fills  up  again,  and  spends  himself; 
then  recommences.  He  is  the  spendthrift  of  genius. 

In  license  and  audacity  of  language  Shakespeare 
equals  Rabelais,  whom,  a  few  days  ago,  a  swan-like 


216  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Like  all  lofty  minds  in  full  riot  of  omnipotence, 
Shakespeare  decants  all  Nature,  drinks  it,  and 
makes  you  drink  it.  Voltaire  reproached  him  for 
his  drunkenness ;  and  was  quite  right.  Why  on 
earth,  we  repeat,  why  has  this  Shakespeare  such  a 
temperament?  He  does  not  stop,  he  does  not  feel 
fatigue,  he  is  without  pity  for  the  poor  weak  stom- 
achs that  are  candidates  for  the  Academy.  The 
gastritis  called  "  good  taste  "  does  not  afflict  him. 
He  is  powerful.  What  is  this  vast  intemperate 
song  that  he  sings  through  the  centuries  —  war- 
song,  drinking-song,  love-ditty  —  which  passes  from 
King  Lear  to  Queen  Mab,  and  from  Hamlet  to 
Falstaff,  heart-rending  at  times  as  a  sob,  grand 
as  the  Iliad?  "  I  am  stiff  all  over  from  reading 
Shakespeare,"  said  M.  Auger. 

His  poetry  has  the  sharp  tang  of  honey  made 
by  the  vagabond  hiveless  bee.  Here  prose,  there 
verse ;  all  forms,  being  but  receptacles  for  the  idea, 
suit  him.  This  poetry  mourns  and  jests.  The 
English  tongue,  a  language  little  formed,  now 
serves,  now  hinders  him ;  but  everywhere  the  deep 
mind  makes  itself  seen  and  felt.  Shakespeare's 
drama  moves  forward  with  a  kind  of  distracted 
rhythm ;  it  is  so  vast  that  it  staggers ;  it  has  and 
gives  the  vertigo :  but  nothing  is  so  solid  as  this 
palpitating  grandeur.  Shakespeare,  shuddering, 
has  within  himself  winds,  spirits,  magic  potions, 
vibrations ;  he  sways  in  the  passing  breeze,  obscure 
effluences  pervade  him,  he  is  filled  with  the  un- 
known sap  of  life.  Thence  his  agitation,  at  the 
core  of  which  is  peace.  It  is  this  agitation  which 
is  lacking  in  Goethe,  wrongly  praised  for  his  im- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2 1/ 

passiveness,  which  is  inferiority.  All  minds  of  the 
first  order  have  this  agitation.  It  is  in  Job,  in  JEs- 
chylus,  in  Alighieri.  This  agitation  is  humanity. 
On  earth  the  divine  must  be  human.  It  must  pro- 
pose to  itself  its  own  riddle,  and  be  distressed  by  it. 
Inspiration  being  a  miracle,  a  sacred  stupor  min- 
gles with  it.  A  certain  majesty  of  mind  resembles 
solitude  and  is  blended  with  wonder.  Shakespeare, 
like  all  great  poets,  like  all  great  things,  is  ab- 
sorbed by  a  dream.  His  own  vegetation  dismays 
him ;  his  own  tempest  appals  him.  It  seems  at 
times  as  if  Shakespeare  terrified  Shakespeare.  He 
shudders  at  his  own  depth.  This  is  the  sign  of 
supreme  intelligence.  It  is  his  own  vastness  which 
shakes  him  and  imparts  to  him  strange  and  mighty 
oscillations.  There  is  no  genius  without  billows. 
An  intoxicated  savage,  it  may  be.  He  has  the 
savagery  of  the  virgin  forest  ;  he  has  the  intoxica- 
tion of  the  high  sea. 

Shakespeare  —  the  condor  alone  gives  some  idea 
of  such  gigantic  flight  —  departs,  arrives,  starts 
again,  mounts,  descends,  hovers,  sinks,  dives,  drops, 
submerges  himself  in  the  depths  below,  merges 
into  the  depths  above.  He  is  one  of  those  ge- 
niuses that  God  purposely  leaves  unbridled,  so  that 
they  may  go  headlong  and  in  full  flight  into  the 
infinite. 

From  time  to  time  there  comes  to  this  globe 
one  of  these  spirits.  Their  passage,  as  we  have 
said,  renews  art,  science,  philosophy,  or  society. 

They  fill  a  century,  then  disappear.  Then  it  is 
not  one  century  alone  that  their  light  illumines,  it 
is  humanity  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  time ; 


2l8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

and  we  perceive  that  each  of  these  men  was  the 
human  mind  itself  contained  whole  in  one  brain, 
and  coming,  at  a  given  moment,  to  impart  new 
impetus  to  earthly  progress. 

These  supreme  spirits,  their  life  ended  and  their 
work  done,  in  death  rejoin  the  mysterious  group 
of  those  who  are  at  home  in  the  infinite. 


BOOK    II. 

SHAKESPEARE.  — HIS    WORK.  — THE    CULMI- 
NATING   POINTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  characteristic  of  men  of  genius  of  the  first 
order  is  to  produce  each  a  peculiar  model  of 
man.  All  bestow  on  humanity  its  portrait, —  some 
laughing,  some  weeping,  others  pensive ;  these  last 
are  the  greatest.  Plautus  laughs,  and  gives  to  man 
Amphitryon;  Rabelais  laughs,  and  gives  to  man 
Gargantua;  Cervantes  laughs,  and  gives  to  man 
Don  Quixote ;  Beaumarchais  laughs,  and  gives  to 
man  Figaro ;  Moliere  weeps,  and  gives  to  man 
Alceste;  Shakespeare  dreams,  and  gives  to  man 
Hamlet;  ^Eschylus  meditates,  and  gives  to  man 
Prometheus.  The  others  are  great ;  yEschylus  and 
Shakespeare  are  vast. 

These  portraits  of  humanity  (left  to  humanity  as 
a  last  farewell  by  those  passing  spirits,  the  poets) 
are  rarely  flattering,  always  exact,  —  likenesses  of 
profound  resemblance.  Vice,  or  folly,  or  virtue 
is  extracted  from  the  soul  and  stamped  upon  the 
visage.  The  tear  congealed,  becomes  a  pearl ;  the 


220  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

smile  petrified,  at  last  appears  a  menace ;  wrinkles 
are  the  furrows  of  wisdom  ;  certain  frowns  are 
tragic.  This  series  of  models  of  man  is  a  perma- 
nent lesson  for  the  generations :  each  century  adds 
in  some  figures,  sometimes  done  in  full  light  and 
strong  relief,  like  Macette,  Celimene,  Tartuffe,  Tur- 
caret,  and  Rameau's  Nephew;  sometimes  simple 
profiles,  like  Gil  Bias,  Manon  Lescaut,  Clarissa 
Harlowe,  and  Candide. 

God  creates  by  intuition ;  man  creates  by  inspi- 
ration, strengthened  by  observation.  This  second 
creation,  which  is  nothing  else  but  divine  action 
carried  out  by  man,  is  what  is  called  "  genius." 

The  poet  stepping  into  the  place  of  destiny ;  an 
invention  of  men  and  events  so  strange,  so  true  to 
nature,  and  so  masterly  that  certain  religious  sects 
hold  it  in  horror  as  an  encroachment  upon  Provi- 
dence, and  call  the  poet  "the  liar;  "  the  conscience 
of  man  taken  in  the  act  and  placed  in  surroundings 
which  it  resists,  governs,  or  transforms  :  such  is  the 
drama.  And  there  is  in  this  something  supreme. 
This  handling  of  the  human  soul  seems  a  kind  of 
equality  with  God  :  equality,  the  mystery  of  which 
is  explained  when  we  reflect  that  God  is  within 
man.  This  equality  is  identity.  Who  is  our  con- 
science? He;  and  He  counsels  right  action.  Who 
is  our  intelligence?  He  ;  and  He  inspires  the 
masterpiece. 

God  may  be  there;  but  this,  as  we  have  seen, 
does  not  lessen  the  crabbedness  of  critics:  the 
greatest  minds  are  the  ones  most  called  in  ques- 
tion. It  even  sometimes  happens  that  real  in- 
telligences attack  genius;  the  inspired,  strangely 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  221 

enough,  do  not  recognize  inspiration.  Erasmus, 
Bayle,  Scaliger,  St.  Evremond,  Voltaire,  many  of 
the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  whole  families  of  phi- 
losophers, the  whole  Alexandrian  School,  Cicero, 
Horace,  Lucian,  Plutarch,  Josephus,  Dion  Chryso- 
stom,  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  Philostratus, 
Metrodorus  of  Lampsacus,  Plato,  Pythagoras,  have 
severely  criticised  Homer.  In  this  enumeration 
we  omit  Zoi'lus.  Men  who  deny  are  not  critics. 
Hatred  is  not  intelligence.  To  insult  is  not  to 
discuss.  Zoi'lus,  Msevius,  Cecchi,  Green,  Avella- 
neda,  William  Lauder,  Vise,  Freron,  —  no  cleansing 
of  these  names  is  possible.  These  men  have 
wounded  the  human  race  in  her  men  of  genius ; 
these  wretched  hands  forever  retain  the  color  of 
the  mud  that  they  have  thrown. 

Nor  have  these  men  even  the  miserable  renown 
that  they  seem  to  have  amply  earned,  nor  the 
whole  quantity  of  infamy  that  they  had  hoped  for. 
It  is  scarcely  known  that  they  have  existed.  They 
are  half  forgotten,  —  a  greater  humiliation  than  to 
be  wholly  forgotten.  With  the  exception  of  two 
or  three  among  them  who  have  become  by-words 
of  contempt,  despicable  owls  nailed  up  for  a  warn- 
ing, all  the  wretched  names  are  unknown.  An 
obscure  notoriety  follows  their  equivocal  existence. 
Look  at  that  Clement  who  called  himself  the  "  hy- 
percritic,"  and  whose  profession  it  was  to  bite  and 
denounce  Diderot;  he  disappears,  and  is  con- 
founded, although  born  at  Geneva,  with  Clement 
of  Dijon,  confessor  to  Mesdames;  with  David 
Clement,  author  of  the  '  Bibliotheque  Curieuse ' ; 
with  Clement  of  Baize,  Benedictine  of  St.  Maur; 


222  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

and  with  Clement  d'Ascain,  Capuchin,  definitor 
and  provincial  of  Beam.  What  avails  it  him  to 
have  declared  that  the  work  of  Diderot  is  but 
"  obscure  verbiage,"  and  to  have  died  mad  at  Cha- 
renton,  to  be  afterward  submerged  in  four  or  five 
unknown  Clements?  In  vain  did  Famien  Strada 
rabidly  attack  Tacitus  :  he  is  scarcely  distinguished 
now  from  Famien  Spada,  called  "  the  Wooden 
Sword,"  the  jester  of  Sigismond  Augustus.  In 
vain  did  Cecchi  vilify  Dante:  we  are  not  certain 
that  his  name  was  not  Cecco.  In  vain  did  Green 
fasten  on  Shakespeare  :  he  is  now  confounded  with 
Greene.1  Avellaneda,  the  "  enemy  "  of  Cervantes, 
is  perhaps  Avellanedo.  Lauder,  the  slanderer  of 
Milton,  is  perhaps  Leuder.  The  unknown  De  Vise, 
who  "  smashed  "  Moliere,  turns  out  to  be  a  certain 
Donneau ;  he  had  surnamed  himself  De  Vise 
through  a  taste  for  nobility.  Those  men  relied, 
in  order  to  create  for  themselves  a  little  notoriety, 
on  the  greatness  of  those  whom  they  outraged. 
But  no  ;  they  have  remained  obscure.  These  poor 
insulters  did  not  get  their  wages ;  they  are  bank- 
rupt of  contempt.  Let  us  pity  them. 

1  And  rightly  ;  for  he  is  indeed  the  same  individual.     See  note, 
p.  190.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  22$ 


CHAPTER  II. 

LET  us  add  that  calumny's  labor  is  lost.  Then 
what  purpose  can  it  serve?  Not  even  an  evil  one. 
Do  you  know  anything  more  useless  than  the  inju- 
rious which  does  not  injure? 

Better  still.  This  injury  is  beneficial.  In  good 
time  it  is  found  that  calumny,  envy,  and  hatred, 
thinking  to  work  harm,  have  worked  benefit. 
Their  insults  bring  fame;  their  blackening  adds 
lustre.  They  succeed  only  in  mingling  with  glory 
an  outcry  which  increases  it. 

Let  us  continue. 

Thus  each  great  poet  tries  on  in  his  turn  this 
immense  human  mask.  And  such  is  the  strength 
of  the  soul  which  shines  through  the  mysterious 
aperture  of  the  eyes,  that  this  look  changes  the 
mask,  and  from  terrible  makes  it  comic,  then  pen- 
sive, then  grieved,  then  young  and  smiling,  then 
decrepit,  then  sensual  and  gluttonous,  then  relig- 
ious, then  outrageous ;  and  it  is  Cain,  Job,  Atreus, 
Ajax,  Priam,  Hecuba,  Niobe,  Clytemnestra,  Nausi- 
caa,  Pistoclerus,  Grumio,  Davus,  Pasicompsa,  Chi- 
mene,  Don  Arias,  Don  Diego,  Mudarra,  Richard 
III.,  Lady  Macbeth,  Desdemona,  Juliet,  Romeo, 
Lear,  Sancho  Panza,  Pantagruel,  Panurge,  Ar- 
nolphe,  Dandin,  Sganarelle,  Agnes,  Rosine,  Victo- 
rine,  Basile,  Almaviva,  Cherubin,  Manfred. 

From  the  direct  divine  creation  proceeds  Adam, 
the  prototype.  From  the  indirect  divine  creation 


224  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

—  that  is  to  say,  from  the  human  creation  —  pro- 
ceed other  Adams,  the  types. 

A  type  does  not  reproduce  any  man  in  particu- 
lar; it  cannot  be  exactly  superposed  upon  any 
individual ;  it  sums  up  and  concentrates  under  one 
human  form  a  whole  family  of  characters  and 
minds.  A  type  is  no  abridgment :  it  is  a  conden- 
sation. It  is  not  one,  it  is  all.  Alcibiades  is  but 
Alcibiades,  Petronius  is  but  Petronius,  Bassom- 
pierre  is  but  Bassompierre,  Buckingham  is  but 
Buckingham,  Fronsac  is  but  Fronsac,  Lauzun  is 
but  Lauzun ;  but  take  Lauzun,  Fronsac,  Bucking- 
ham, Bassompierre,  Petronius,  and  Alcibiades,  and 
bray  them  in  the  mortar  of  the  dream,  and  there 
issues  from  it  a  phantom  more  real  than  them  all, 

—  Don  Juan.     Take  usurers  individually,  and  no 
one   of  them   is  that  fierce  merchant  of  Venice, 
crying:  "Go,  Tubal,  fee  me  an  officer,  bespeak  him 
a  fortnight  before ;   1  will  have  the  heart  of  him  if 
he  forfeit."     Take  all  the  usurers  together,  from  the 
crowd  of  them  is  evolved  a  total,  —  Shylock.    Sum 
up  usury,  you  have   Shylock.     The  metaphor  of 
the  people,  who  are  never  mistaken,  confirms  una- 
wares the  invention  of  the  poet ;   and  while  Shake- 
speare makes  Shylock,  the  popular  tongue  creates 
the  bloodsucker.1     Shylock  is  the  embodiment  of 
Jewishness ;   he  is  also  Judaism,  —  that  is  to  say, 
his  whole  nation,  the  high  as  well  as  the  low,  faith 
as  well  as  fraud ;   and  it  is  because  he  sums  up  a 
whole  race,  such  as  oppression  has  made  it,  that 
Shylock  is  great.     The  Jews  are,  however,  right  in 
saying  that  none  of  them — not  even  the  mediaeval 

1  Happe-chair ;  literally,  "grab-flesh."— -TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  22$ 

Jew  —  is  Shylock.  Men  of  pleasure  may  with  rea- 
son say  that  no  one  of  them  is  Don  Juan.  No  leaf 
of  the  orange-tree  when  chewed  gives  the  flavor  of 
the  orange ;  yet  there  is  a  deep  affinity,  an  identity 
of  roots,  a  sap  rising  from  the  same  source,  a  shar- 
ing of  the  same  subterranean  shadow  before  life. 
The  fruit  contains  the  mystery  of  the  tree,  and  the 
type  contains  the  mystery  of  the  man.  Hence  the 
strange  vitality  of  the  type. 

For  —  and  this  is  the  marvel  —  the  type  lives. 
Were  it  but  an  abstraction,  men  would  not  recog- 
nize it,  and  would  allow  this  shadow  to  go  its  way. 
The  tragedy  termed  "  classic  "  makes  phantoms  ; 
the  drama  creates  living  types.  A  lesson  which  is 
a  man ;  a  myth  with  a  human  face  so  plastic  that  it 
looks  at  you  and  that  its  look  is  a  mirror;  a  para- 
ble which  nudges  you ;  a  symbol  which  cries  out 
"  Beware !  "  an  idea  which  is  nerve,  muscle,  and 
flesh,  —  which>  has  a  heart  to  love,  bowels  to 
suffer,  eyes  to  weep,  and  teeth  to  devour  or  to 
laugh ;  a  psychical  conception  with  the  relief  of 
actual  fact,  which,  if  it  be  pricked,  bleeds  red, 
—  such  is  the  type.  O  power  of  all  poetry ! 
These  types  are  beings.  They  breathe,  they  pal- 
pitate, their  steps  are  heard  on  the  floor,  they 
exist.  They  exist  with  an  existence  more  intense 
than  that  of  any  creature  thinking  himself  alive 
there  in  the  street.  These  phantoms  are  more 
substantial  than  man.  In  their  essence  is  that 
eternal  element  which  belongs  to  masterworks, 
which  makes  Trimalchio  live,  while  M.  Romieu  is 
dead. 

Types  are  cases  foreseen  of  God  ;  genius  realizes 
15 


-  :  C>  mtUAM  SffAJCXSJTEAKE. 


them.  It  seems  that  God  prefers  to  teach  man  a 
lesson  through  man,  in  order  to  inspire  confidence, 
The  poet  walks  the  street  with  living  men  ;  he  has 
their  ear.  Hence  the  efficacy  of  types,  Man  is  a 
premise,  the  type  the  conclusion  ;  God  creates  the 
phenomenon,  genius  gives  it  a  name;  God  creates 
the  miser  only,  genius  forms  Harpagon;  God 
creates  the  traitor  only,  genius  makes  lago;  God 
creates  the  coquette,  genius  makes  C£limene; 
God  creates  the  citizen  only,  genius  makes  Chry- 
sale;  God  creates  the  king  only,  genius  makes 
Grandgousier,  Sometimes,  at  a  given  moment, 
the  type  issues  full-grown  from  some  unknown 
collaboration  of  the  mass  of  the  people  with  a 
great  natural  actor,  an  involuntary  and  powerful 
realizer;  the  crowd  is  a  midwife;  in  an  epoch 
which  bears  at  one  extreme  Talleyrand,  and  at 
another  Chodruc-Duclos,  there  springs  up  sud- 
denly, in  a  flash  of  lightning,  under  the  mysterious 
incubation  of  the  theatre,  that  spectre  Robert 
Macaire.1 

Types  go  and  come  on  a  common  level  in  Aft 
and  in  Nature;  they  are  the  ideal  realized.  The 
good  and  the  evil  of  man  are  in  these  figures. 
From  each  of  them  springs,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
thinker,  a  humanity. 

As  we  have  said  before,  as  many  types,  as  many 
Adams.  The  man  of  Homer,  Achilles,  is  an 
Adam  :  from  him  comes  the  species  of  the  slayers  ; 
the  man  of  JEschylus,  Prometheus,  is  an  Adam  : 
from  him  comes  the  race  of  the  wrestlers;  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  22/ 

man  of  Shakespeare,  Hamlet,  is  an  Adam :  to  him 
belongs  the  family  of  the  dreamers.  Other  Adams, 
created  by  poets,  incarnate,  —  this  one,  passion; 
another,  duty;  another,  reason;  another,  con- 
science ;  another,  the  fall ;  another,  the  ascension. 

Prudence,  drifting  into  trepidation,  passes  from 
the  old  man  Nestor  to  the  old  man  Geronte.  Love, 
drifting  into  appetite,  passes  from  Daphne  to  Love- 
lace. Beauty,  entwined  with  the  serpent,  passes 
from  Eve  to  Melusina.  The  types  begin  in  Gene- 
sis, and  a  link  of  their  chain  passes  through  Restif 
de  la  Bretonne  and  Vade.  The  lyric  suits  them, 
—  Billingsgate  does  not  misbecome  them.  They 
speak  a  country  dialect  by  the  mouth  of  Gros- 
Rene,  and  in  Homer  they  say  to  Minerva,  who 
takes  them  by  the  hair :  "  What  wouldst  thou  with 
me,  Goddess?" 

A  surprising  exception  has  been  conceded  to 
Dante.  The  man  of  Dante  is  Dante.  Dante  has, 
so  to  speak,  recreated  himself  in  his  poem :  he  is 
his  own  type;  his  Adam  is  himself.  For  the 
action  of  his  poem  he  has  sought  out  no  one.  He 
has  taken  Virgil  only  as  a  supernumerary.  More- 
over, he  made  himself  epic  at  once,  without  even 
giving  himself  the  trouble  to  change  his  name. 
What  he  had  to  do  was  in  fact  simple,  —  to 
descend  into  hell,  and  remount  to  heaven.  What 
use  was  it  to  trouble  himself  for  so  little?  He 
knocks  gravely  at  the  door  of  the  Infinite  and 
says:  "Open!  I  am  Dante." 


228  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  man  of  ^Eschylus,  Prometheus,  and  the 
man  of  Shakespeare,  Hamlet,  are  as  we  have  just 
said,  —  two  marvellous  Adams. 

Prometheus  is  action;    Hamlet  is  hesitation. 

In  Prometheus  the  obstacle  is  exterior  ;  in 
Hamlet  it  is  interior. 

In  Prometheus  the  four  limbs  of  incarnate  Will 
are  nailed  down  with  brazen  spikes,  and  cannot 
move :  besides,  it  has  by  its  side  two  watchers, 
Force  and  Power.  In  Hamlet  the  Will  is  still  more 
enthralled  :  it  is  bound  by  preliminary  meditation, 
the  endless  chain  of  the  irresolute.  Try  to  get  out 
of  yourself  if  you  can !  What  a  Gordian  knot  is 
our  revery !  Slavery  from  within,  is  slavery  in- 
deed. Scale  me  the  barricade  of  thought !  escape, 
if  you  can,  from  the  prison  of  love !  The  only 
dungeon  is  that  which  immures  the  conscience. 
Prometheus,  in  order  to  be  free,  has  but  a  bronze 
collar  to  break  and  a  god  to  conquer;  Hamlet 
must  break  and  conquer  himself.  Prometheus  can 
rise  upright,  quit  with  lifting  a  mountain;  in 
order  that  Hamlet  may  stand  erect,  he  must  lift 
his  own  thought.  If  Prometheus  plucks  the 
vulture  from  his  breast,  all  is  done ;  Hamlet  must 
rend  from  his  flank  Hamlet.  Prometheus  and 
Hamlet  are  two  livers  laid  bare:  from  the  one 
trickles  blood,  from  the  other  doubt 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  229 

We  are  in  the  habit  of  comparing  ^Eschylus  and 
Shakespeare  by  Orestes  and  Hamlet,  these  two 
tragedies  being  the  same  drama.  Never  in  fact 
was  there  more  identity  of  subject.  The  learned 
note  an  analogy  between  them  ;  the  impotent,  who 
are  also  the  ignorant,  the  envious,  who  are  also 
the  imbecile,  have  the  petty  joy  of  thinking  they 
detect  a  plagiarism.  There  is  here,  for  the  rest, 
a  possible  field  for  comparative  erudition  and  for 
serious  criticism.  Hamlet  walks  behind  Orestes, 
a  parricide  through  filial  love.  This  easy  com- 
parison, rather  superficial  than  substantial,  is  less 
striking  than  the  mysterious  confrontment  of  those 
two  captives,  Prometheus  and  Hamlet. 

Let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  the  human  mind, 
half  divine  as  it  is,  creates  from  time  to  time  super- 
human works.  Furthermore,  these  superhuman 
works  of  man  are  more  numerous  than  is  believed, 
for  they  make  up  the  whole  of  art.  Outside  of 
poetry,  where  wonders  abound,  there  is,  in  music, 
Beethoven;  in  sculpture,  Phidias;  in  architecture, 
Piranesi ;  in  painting,  Rembrandt ;  and  in  painting, 
architecture,  and  sculpture,  Michael  Angelo.  We 
pass  over  many,  and  not  the  least. 

Prometheus  and  Hamlet  are  among  these  more 
than  human  works. 

A  kind  of  gigantic  prepossession:  the  usual 
measure  exceeded  ;  greatness  everywhere,  —  the 
dismay  of  commonplace  minds ;  the  true  demon- 
strated, when  necessary,  by  the  improbable  ; 
destiny,  society,  law,  religion,  brought  to  trial  and 
judgment  in  the  name  of  the  Unknown,  the  abyss 
of  the  mysterious  equilibrium;  the  event  treated 


230  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

as  a  rdle  to  be  played,  and,  on  occasion,  hurled  as 
a  reproach  against  Fatality  or  Providence ;  Passion, 
terrible  personage,  going  and  coming  in  man ;  the 
audacity  and  sometimes  the  insolence  of  reason ; 
the  haughty  forms  of  a  style  at  ease  in  all  extremes, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  profound  wisdom;  the 
gentleness  of  the  giant,  the  good  nature  of  a 
softened  monster ;  an  ineffable  dawn  which  cannot 
be  accounted  for  and  which  lights  up  everything : 
such  are  the  signs  of  these  supreme  works.  In 
certain  poems  there  is  starlight. 

This  light  is  in  ^Eschylus  and  in  Shakespeare. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

NOTHING  can  be  more  fiercely  wild  than  Prome- 
theus stretched  on  the  Caucasus.  It  is  gigantic 
tragedy.  The  old  punishment  which  our  ancient 
laws  of  torture  called  "  extension,"  and  which  Car- 
touche escaped  because  of  a  hernia,  —  this,  Prome- 
theus undergoes;  only  the  rack  is  a  mountain. 
What  is  his  crime?  The  Right.  To  characterize 
right  as  crime,  and  movement  as  rebellion,  is  the 
immemorial  skill  of  tyrants.  Prometheus  has  done 
on  Olympus  what  Eve  did  in  Eden,  —  he  has 
taken  a  little  knowledge.  Jupiter  —  identical,  in- 
deed, with  Jehovah  (lovi,  lova) — punishes  this 
temerity  of  having  desired  to  live.  The  ^Eginetic 
traditions,  which  localize  Jupiter,  deprive  him  of  the 
cosmic  impersonality  of  the  Jehovah  of  Genesis. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

The  Greek  Jupiter  —  bad  son  of  a  bad  father,  in 
rebellion  against  Saturn,  who  has  himself  been  a 
rebel  against  Coelus,  —  is  an  upstart.  The  Titans 
are  a  sort  of  elder  branch  which  has  its  legitimists, 
of  whom  ^Eschylus,  the  avenger  of  Prometheus,  was 
one.  Prometheus  is  the  right  conquered.  Jupiter 
has,  as  is  always  the  case,  consummated  the  usur- 
pation of  power  by  the  punishment  of  right. 
Olympus  claims  the  aid  of  Caucasus.  Prometheus 
is  fastened  there  by  the  brazen  collar.  There  is 
the  Titan,  fallen,  prostrate,  nailed  down.  Mercury, 
everybody's  friend,  comes  to  give  him  such  coun- 
sel as  generally  follows  the  perpetration  of  coups 
d'etat.  Mercury  is  the  cowardice  of  intelligence; 
the  embodiment  of  all  possible  vice,  but  full  of 
cleverness :  Mercury,  the  god  Vice,  serves  Jupiter, 
the  god  Crime.  These  flunkeys  in  evil  are  marked 
to  this  day  by  the  veneration  of  the  thief  for  the 
assassin.  There  is  something  of  that  law  in  the 
arrival  of  the  diplomatist  behind  the  conqueror. 
The  masterworks  are  immense  in  this,  —  that  they 
are  eternally  present  at  the  deeds  of  humanity. 
Prometheus  on  the  Caucasus,  is  Poland  after  1772; 
France  after  1815  ;  the  Revolution  after  Brumaire. 
Mercury  speaks;  Prometheus  listens  but  little. 
Offers  of  amnesty  miscarry  when  it  is  the  victim 
alone  who  should  have  the  right  to  grant  pardon. 
Prometheus,  thrown  to  earth,  scorns  Mercury 
standing  proudly  above  him,  and  Jupiter  standing 
above  Mercury,  and  Destiny  standing  above  Jupi- 
ter. Prometheus  jests  at  the  vulture  which  gnaws 
at  him ;  he  disdainfully  shrugs  his  shoulders  as 
much  as  his  chain  allows.  What  does  he  care  for 


232  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Jupiter,  and  of  what  good  is  Mercury?  There  is 
no  hold  upon  this  haughty  sufferer.  The  scorch- 
ing thunderbolt  causes  a  smart,  which  is  a  constant 
appeal  to  pride.  Meanwhile  tears  flow  around 
him,  the  earth  despairs,  the  cloud-women  —  the 
fifty  Oceanides  —  come  to  worship  the  Titan, 
forests  cry  aloud,  wild  beasts  groan,  winds  howl, 
waves  sob,  the  elements  moan,  the  world  suffers 
in  Prometheus,  —  his  brazen  collar  chokes  the 
universal  life.  An  immense  participation  in  the 
torture  of  the  demigod  seems  to  be  henceforth 
the  tragic  delight  of  all  Nature ;  anxiety  for  the 
future  mingles  with  it:  and  what  is  to  be  done 
now?  How  are  we  to  move?  What  will  become 
of  us?  And  in  the  vast  whole  of  created  beings, 
things,  men,  animals,  plants,  rocks,  all  turned 
toward  the  Caucasus,  is  felt  this  unspeakable 
anguish  :  the  liberator  is  enchained. 

Hamlet,  less  gigantic  and  more  human,  is  not 
less  great. 

Hamlet,  that  awful  being  complete  in  incom- 
pleteness; all,  in  order  to  be  nothing!  He  is 
prince  and  demagogue,  sagacious  and  extravagant, 
profound  and  frivolous,  man  and  neuter.  He  has 
little  faith  in  the  sceptre,  rails  at  the  throne,  has 
a  student  for  his  comrade,  converses  with  any  one 
passing  by,  argues  with  the  first  comer,  understands 
the  people,  despises  the  mob,  hates  violence,  dis- 
trusts success,  questions  obscurity,  and  is  on 
speaking  terms  with  mystery.  He  communicates 
to  others  maladies  that  he  has  not  himself;  his 
feigned  madness  inoculates  his  mistress  with  real 
madness.  He  is  familiar  with  spectres  and  with 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  233 

actors.  He  jests,  with  the  axe  of  Orestes  in  his 
hand.  He  talks  literature,  recites  verses,  composes 
a  theatrical  criticism,  plays  with  bones  in  a  church- 
yard, dumfounds  his  mother,  avenges  his  father, 
and  closes  the  dread  drama  of  life  and  death  with 
a  gigantic  point  of  interrogation.  He  terrifies,  and 
then  disconcerts.  Never  has  anything  more  over- 
whelming been  dreamed.  It  is  the  parricide 
saying,  "What  do  I  know?" 

Parricide?  Let  us  pause  upon  that  word.  Is 
Hamlet  a  parricide?  Yes,  and  no.  He  confines 
himself  to  threatening  his  mother ;  but  the  threat 
is  so  fierce  that  the  mother  shudders.  "  Thy  word 
is  a  dagger!  .  .  .  What  wilt  thou  do?  Thou  wilt 
not  murder  me?  Help  !  help  !  ho  !  "  —  and  when 
she  dies,  Hamlet,  without  grieving  for  her,  strikes 
Claudius  with  the  tragic  cry  :  "  Follow  my 
mother  !  "  Hamlet  is  that  sinister  thing,  the 
possible  parricide.1 

Instead  of  the  North,  which  he  has  in  his  brain, 
let  him  have,  like  Orestes,  the  South  in  his  veins, 
and  he  will  kill  his  mother. 

This  drama  is  stern.  In  it  truth  doubts,  sin- 
cerity lies.  Nothing  can  be  vaster,  nothing  subtler. 
In  it  man  is  the  world,  and  the  world  is  zero. 
Hamlet,  even  in  full  life,  is  not  sure  of  his  exist- 
ence. In  this  tragedy  —  which  is  at  the  same  time 
a  philosophy  —  everything  floats,  hesitates,  shuffles, 
staggers,  becomes  discomposed,  scatters,  and  is 
dispersed.  Thought  is  a  cloud,  will  is  a  vapor, 
resolution  a  twilight;  the  action  blows  every 

1  The  quotation  from  '  Hamlet '  is  left  in  the  inexact  form  that 
Hugo  gave  it.  —  TR. 


234  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

moment  from  a  different  direction:  the  manner's 
card  governs  man.  A  work  which  disturbs  and 
makes  dizzy;  in  which  the  bottom  of  everything 
is  laid  bare  ;  where  the  pendulum  of  thought 
oscillates  only  from  the  murdered  king  to  buried 
Yorick;  and  where  that  which  is  most  real  is 
kingliness  impersonated  in  a  ghost,  and  mirth 
represented  by  a  death's-head. 

Hamlet  is  the  supreme  tragedy  of  the  human 
dream. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ONE  of  the  probable  causes  of  the  feigned  mad- 
ness of  Hamlet  has  not  been,  up  to  the  present 
time,  indicated  by  critics.  It  has  been  said, 
"  Hamlet  acts  the  madman  to  hide  his  thought, 
like  Brutus."  In  fact,  it  is  easy  for  apparent  im- 
becility to  hatch  a  great  project;  the  supposed 
idiot  can  take  aim  deliberately.  But  the  case  of 
Brutus  is  not  that  of  Hamlet.  Hamlet  acts  the 
madman  for  his  safety.  Brutus  screens  his  pro- 
ject, Hamlet  his  person.  Given  the  manners  of 
those  tragic  courts,  from  the  moment  that,  through 
the  revelation  of  the  ghost,  Hamlet  is  acquainted 
with  the  crime  of  Claudius,  he  is  in  danger.  The 
superior  historian  within  the  poet  is  manifested, 
and  one  feels  the  deep  insight  of  Shakespeare 
into  the  darkness  of  the  ancient  royalty.  In  the 
Middle  Ages  and  in  the  Eastern  Empire,  and 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  235 

even  at  earlier  periods,  woe  unto  him  who  found 
out  a  murder  or  a  poisoning  committed  by  a 
king !  Ovid,  according  to  Voltaire's  conjecture, 
was  exiled  from  Rome  for  having  seen  something 
shameful  in  the  house  of  Augustus.  To  know 
that  the  King  was  an  assassin,  was  a  state  crime. 
When  it  pleased  the  prince  not  to  have  had  a  wit- 
ness, it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  know 
nothing;  it  was  bad  policy  to  have  good  eyes. 
A  man  suspected  of  suspicion  was  lost.  He  had 
but  one  refuge,  —  madness;  to  pass  for  "an  inno- 
cent :  "  he  was  despised,  and  that  was  all.  You 
remember  the  advice  that,  in  ^Eschylus,  the  Ocean 
gives  to  Prometheus :  "  To  seem  mad  is  the  secret 
of  the  sage."  When  the  Chamberlain  Hugolin 
found  the  iron  spit  with  which  Edric  of  Mercia1 
had  impaled  Edmund  II.,  "  he  hastened  to  put  on 
madness,"  says  the  Saxon  chronicle  of  1016,  and 
saved  himself -in  that  way.  Heraclides  of  Nisibis, 
having  discovered  by  chance  that  Rhinometer  was 
a  fratricide,  had  himself  declared  insane  by  the 
doctors,  and  succeeded  in  getting  himself  shut  up 
for  life  in  a  cloister.  He  thus  lived  peaceably, 
growing  old,  and  waiting  for  death  with  a  vacant 
stare.  Hamlet  runs  the  same  risk,  and  has  re- 
course to  the  same  means.  He  gets  himself  de- 
clared insane  like  Heraclides,  and  puts  on  madness 
like  Hugolin.  This  does  not  prevent  the  uneasy 
Claudius  from  twice  making  an  effort  to  get  rid 

1  Freeman  says :  "  The  chronicles  are  silent  as  to  the  manner 
of  Eadmund's  death."  —  Norman  Conquest,  i.  470.  The  reality 
of  the  murder  is  very  doubtful.  The  story  of  Hugolin  is  not  men- 
tioned by  Freeman.  —  TR. 


236  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

of  him,  —  in  the  middle  of  the  drama  by  the  axe 
or  the  dagger,  and  toward  the  end  by  poison. 

The  same  indication  is  again  found  in  '  King 
Lear :  '  the  Earl  of  Gloucester's  son  takes  refuge 
also  in  apparent  lunacy.  Herein  is  a  key  to  open 
and  understand  Shakespeare's  thought.  To  the 
eyes  of  the  philosophy  of  Art,  the  feigned  madness 
of  Edgar  throws  light  upon  the  feigned  madness 
of  Hamlet. 

The  Hamblet  of  Belleforest  is  a  magician ;  the 
Hamlet  of  Shakespeare  is  a  philosopher.  We 
just  now  spoke  of  the  singular  reality  which 
characterizes  poetical  creations.  There  is  no 
more  striking  example  than  this  type,  Hamlet. 
Hamlet  is  not  in  the  least  an  abstraction.  He  has 
been  at  the  university ;  he  has  the  Danish  savage- 
ness  softened  by  the  Italian  politeness ;  he  is  short, 
plump,  somewhat  lymphatic  ;  he  fences  well,  but 
is  soon  out  of  breath.  He  does  not  care  to  drink 
too  soon  during  the  fencing-bout  with  Laertes,  — 
probably  for  fear  of  sweating.  After  having  thus 
supplied  his  personage  with  real  life,  the  poet  can 
launch  him  into  the  full  ideal;  there  is  ballast 
enough. 

Other  works  of  the  human  mind  equal '  Hamlet;' 
none  surpasses  it.  There  is  in  'Hamlet'  all  the 
majesty  of  the  mournful.  A  drama  issuing  from 
an  open  sepulchre,  — this  is  colossal.  'Hamlet'  is 
to  our  mind  Shakespeare's  capital  work. 

No  figure  among  those  that  poets  have  created 
is  more  poignant  and  more  disquieting.  Doubt 
counselled  by  a  ghost, — such  is  Hamlet.  Ham- 
let has  seen  his  dead  father  and  has  spoken  to  him. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Is  he  convinced?  No;  he  shakes  his  head.  What 
shall  he  do?  He  does  not  know.  His  hands 
clench,  then  fall  by  his  side.  Within  him  are  con- 
jectures, systems,  monstrous  apparitions,  bloody 
recollections,  veneration  for  the  ghost,  hate,  tender- 
ness, anxiety  to  act  and  not  to  act,  his  father,  his 
mother,  conflicting  duties,  —  a  profound  storm. 
His  mind  is  occupied  with  ghastly  hesitation. 
Shakespeare,  wonderful  plastic  poet,  makes  the 
grandiose  pallor  of  this  soul  almost  visible.  Like 
the  great  spectre  of  Albrecht  Diirer,  Hamlet  might 
be  named  '  Melancholia.'  Above  his  head,  too, 
there  flits  the  disembowelled  bat;  at  his  feet  are 
science,  the  sphere,  the  compass,  the  hour-glass, 
love ;  and  behind  him,  at  the  horizon,  a  great  and 
terrible  sun,  which  seems  to  make  the  sky  but 
darker. 

Nevertheless,  at  least  one  half  of  Hamlet  is 
anger,  transport,  outrage,  hurricane,  sarcasm  to 
Ophelia,  malediction  on  his  mother,  insult  to  him- 
self. He  talks  with  the  grave-diggers,  almost 
laughs,  then  clutches  Laertes  by  the  hair  in  the 
very  grave  of  Ophelia,  and  tramples  furiously  up- 
on that  coffin.  Sword-thrusts  at  Polonius,  sword- 
thrusts  at  Laertes,  sword-thrusts  at  Claudius.  At 
times  his  inaction  gapes  open,  and  from  the  rent, 
thunderbolts  flash  out. 

He  is  tormented  by  that  possible  life,  interwoven 
of  reality  and  dream,  concerning  which  we  are  all 
anxious.  Somnambulism  is  diffused  through  all 
his  actions.  One  might  almost  consider  his  brain 
as  a  formation :  there  is  a  layer  of  suffering,  a 
layer  of  thought,  then  a  layer  of  dream.  It  is 


238  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

through  this  layer  of  dream  that  he  feels,  compre- 
hends, learns,  perceives,  drinks,  eats,  frets,  mocks, 
weeps,  and  reasons.  There  is  between  life  and 
him  a  transparency,  —  the  wall  of  dreams ;  one 
sees  beyond  it,  but  one  cannot  step  over  it.  A 
kind  of  cloudy  obstacle  everywhere  surrounds 
Hamlet.  Have  you  never,  while  sleeping,  had  the 
nightmare  of  pursuit  or  flight,  and  tried  to  hasten 
on,  and  felt  the  anchylosis  of  your  knees,  the 
heaviness  of  your  arms,  the  horrible  paralysis  of 
your  benumbed  hands?  This  nightmare  Hamlet 
suffers  while  awake.  Hamlet  is  not  upon  the  spot 
where  his  life  is.  He  has  ever  the  air  of  a  man 
who  talks  to  you  from  the  other  side  of  a  stream. 
He  calls  to  you  at  the  same  time  that  he  questions 
you.  He  is  at  a  distance  from  the  catastrophe  in 
which  he  moves,  from  the  passer-by  he  questions, 
from  the  thought  he  bears,  from  the  action  he  per- 
forms. He  seems  not  to  touch  even  what  he 
crushes.  This  is  isolation  carried  to  its  highest 
power.  It  is  the  loneliness  of  a  mind,  even  more 
than  the  unapproachableness  of  a  prince.  Inde- 
cision is,  in  fact,  a  solitude ;  you  have  not  even 
your  will  to  keep  you  company.  It  is  as  if  your 
own  self  had  departed  and  had  left  you  there. 
The  burden  of  Hamlet  is  less  rigid  than  that  of 
Orestes ;  it  fits  patter  to  his  form :  Orestes  bears 
fatality,  Hamlet  destiny. 

And  thus,  apart  from  men,  Hamlet  still  has 
within  him  an  undefined  something  which  repre- 
sents them  all.  Agnosco  fratrem.  If  at  certain 
hours  we  felt  our  own  pulse,  we  should  be  con- 
scious of  his  fever.  His  strange  reality  is  our  own 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  239 

reality,  after  all.  He  is  the  mournful  man  that 
we  all  are  in  certain  situations.  Unhealthy  as  he 
is,  Hamlet  expresses  a  permanent  condition  of 
man.  He  represents  the  discomfort  of  the  soul  in 
a  life  unsuited  to  it.  He  represents  the  shoe  that 
pinches  and  stops  our  walking:  this  shoe  is  the 
body.  Shakespeare  delivers  him  from  it,  and 
rightly.  Hamlet  —  prince  if  you  like,  but  king 
never — is  incapable  of  governing  a  people,  so 
wholly  apart  from  all  does  he  exist.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  does  better  than  to  reign ;  he  is.  Take 
from  him  his  family,  his  country,  his  ghost,  the 
whole  adventure  at  Elsinore,  and  even  in  the  form 
of  an  inactive  type  he  remains  strangely  terrible. 
This  results  from  the  amount  of  humanity  and  the 
amount  of  mystery  in  him.  Hamlet  is  formidable, 
—  which  does  not  prevent  his  being  ironical.  He 
has  the  two  profiles  of  destiny. 

Let  us  retract  a  word  said  above.  The  capital 
work  of  Shakespeare  is  not  '  Hamlet : '  the  capital 
work  of  Shakespeare  is  all  Shakespeare.  This  is, 
moreover,  true  of  all  minds  of  this  order.  They 
are  mass,  block,  majesty,  bible ;  and  their  unity  is 
what  renders  them  impressive. 

Have  you  never  gazed  upon  a  beclouded  head- 
land running  out  beyond  eye-shot  into  the  deep 
sea?  Each  of  its  hills  contributes  to  its  make-up. 
No  one  of  its  undulations  is  lost  upon  it.  Its  bold 
outline  is  sharply  marked  upon  the  sky,  and  juts 
far  out  amid  the  waves  ;  and  there  is  not  a  useless 
rock.  Thanks  to  this  cape,  you  can  go  amidst  the 
boundless  waters,  walk  among  the  winds,  see 
closely  the  eagles  soar  and  the  monsters  swim, 


240  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

let  your  humanity  wander  in  the  eternal  uproar, 
penetrate  the  impenetrable.  The  poet  renders 
this  service  to  your  mind.  A  genius  is  a  headland 
into  the  infinite. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WITH  '  Hamlet,'  and  upon  the  same  level,  must 
be  placed  three  noble  dramas,  —  '  Macbeth,' 
'  Othello,'  '  King  Lear.' 

Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Othello,  Lear  —  these  four 
figures  tower  upon  the  lofty  edifice  of  Shakespeare. 
We  have  said  what  Hamlet  is. 

To  say  "  Macbeth  is  ambition,"  is  to  say  nothing. 
Macbeth  is  hunger.  What  hunger?  The  hunger 
of  the  monster,  always  possible  in  man.  Certain 
souls  have  teeth.  Do  not  arouse  their  hunger. 

To  bite  at  the  apple  is  a  fearful  thing.  The  ap- 
ple is  named  "  Omnia,"  says  Filesac,  that  doctor  of 
the  Sorbonne  who  confessed  Ravaillac.  Macbeth 
has  a  wife  whom  the  chronicle  calls  Gruoch.  This 
Eve  tempts  this  Adam.  Once  Macbeth  has  taken 
the  first  bite,  he  is  lost.  The  first  thing  that  Adam 
produces  with  Eve  is  Cain;  the  first  thing  that 
Macbeth  accomplishes  with  Gruoch  is  murder. 

Covetousness  easily  becoming  violence,  violence 
easily  becoming  crime,  crime  easily  becoming  mad- 
ness :  this  progression  is  in  Macbeth.  Covetous- 
ness,  Crime,  Madness —  these  three  night-hags  have 
spoken  to  him  in  the  solitude,  and  have  invited  him 
to  the  throne.  The  cat  Gray-malkin  has  called  him : 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  241 

Macbeth  will  be  cunning;  the  toad  Paddock  has 
called  him :  Macbeth  will  be  horror.  The  unsexed 
being,  Gruoch,  completes  him.  It  is  done ;  Mac- 
beth is  no  longer  a  man.  He  is  no  longer  anything 
but  an  unconscious  energy  rushing  wildly  toward 
evil.  Henceforth,  no  notion  of  right;  appetite  is 
everything.  The  transitory  right  of  royalty,  the 
eternal  right  of  hospitality  —  Macbeth  murders 
both.  He  does  more  than  slay  them :  he  ignores 
them.  Before  they  fell  bleeding  under  his  hand, 
they  already  lay  dead  within  his  soul.  Macbeth 
begins  by  this  parricide,  —  the  murder  of  Duncan, 
his  guest;  a  crime  so  terrible  that,  as  a  conse- 
quence, in  the  night  when  their  master  is  stabbed, 
the  horses  of  Duncan  become  wild  again.  The 
first  step  taken,  the  ground  begins  to  crumble ;  it 
is  the  avalanche.  Macbeth  rolls  headlong;  he  is 
precipitated  ;  he  falls  and  rebounds  from  one  crime 
to  another,  ever  deeper  and  deeper.  He  undergoes 
the  mournful  gravitation  of  matter  invading  the 
soul.  He  is  a  thing  that  destroys.  Pie  is  a  stone 
of  ruin,  a  flame  of  war,  a  beast  of  prey,  a  scourge. 
He  marches  over  all  Scotland,  king  as  he  is,  his 
barelegged  kernes  and  his  heavily  armed  gallow- 
glasses  slaughtering,  pillaging,  massacring.  He 
decimates  the  thanes,  he  murders  Banquo,  he  mur- 
ders all  the  Macduffs  except  the  one  that  shall  slay 
him,  he  murders  the  nobility,  he  murders  the  peo- 
ple, he  murders  his  country,  he  murders  "  sleep." 
At  length  the  catastrophe  arrives,  —  the  forest  of 
Birnam  moves  against  him.  Macbeth  has  infringed 
all,  overstepped  all,  destroyed  all,  violated  all ;  and 
this  desperation  ends  in  arousing  even  Nature. 

16 


242  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Nature  loses  patience,  Nature  enters  into  action 
against  Macbeth,  Nature  becomes  soul  against  the 
man  who  has  become  brute  force. 

This  drama  has  epic  proportions.  Macbeth  rep- 
resents that  frightful  hungry  creature  who  prowls 
throughout  history — in  the  forest  called  brigand, 
and  on  the  throne,  conqueror.  The  ancestor  of 
Macbeth  is  Nimrod.  These  men  of  force,  are  they 
forever  furious?  Let  us  be  just;  no.  They  have 
a  goal,  which  being  attained,  they  stop.  Give  to 
Alexander,  to  Cyrus,  to  Sesostris,  to  Caesar  — 
what?  —  the  world;  they  are  appeased.  Geoffrey 
St.  Hilaire  said  to  me  one  day :  "  When  the  lion 
has  eaten,  he  is  at  peace  with  Nature."  For  Cam- 
byses,  Sennacherib,  Genghis  Khan,  and  the  like,  to 
have  eaten  is  to  possess  the  whole  earth.  They 
would  calm  themselves  down  in  the  process  of 
digesting  the  human  race. 

Now  what  is  Othello?  He  is  the  night.  An 
immense  fatal  figure.  Night  is  amorous  of  day. 
Darkness  loves  the  dawn.  The  African  adores  the 
white  woman.  Othello  has  for  his  light  and  for  his 
frenzy,  Desdemona.  And  then,  how  easy  to  him 
is  jealousy !  He  is  great,  he  is  dignified,  he  is  ma- 
j.estic,  he  soars  above  all  heads ;  he  has  as  an  escort 
bravery,  battle,  the  braying  of  trumpets,  the  banners 
of  war,  renown,  glory;  he  is  radiant  with  twenty 
victories,  he  is  studded  with  stars,  this  Othello : 
but  he  is  black.  And  thus  how  soon,  when  jealous, 
the  hero  becomes  the  monster,  the  black  becomes 
the  negro  !  How  speedily  has  night  beckoned  to 
death! 

By  the  side  of  Othello,  who  is  night,  there  is 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  243 

Tago,  who  is  evil  —  evil,  the  other  form  of  darkness. 
Night  is  hut  the  night  of  the  world ;  evil  is  the 
night  of  the  soul.  How  deeply  black  are  perfidy 
and  falsehood  !  It  is  all  one  whether  what  courses 
through  the  veins  be  ink  or  treason.  Whoever 
has  jostled  against  imposture  and  perjury,  knows 
it :  one  must  blindly  grope  one's  way  with  knavery. 
Pour  hypocrisy  upon  the  break  of  day,  and  you 
put  out  the  sun ;  and  this,  thanks  to  false  religions, 
is  what  happens  to  God. 

lago  near  Othello  is  the  precipice  near  the  land- 
slip. "  This  way !  "  he  says  in  a  low  voice.  The 
snare  advises  blindness.  The  lover  of  darkness 
guides  the  black.  Deceit  takes  upon  itself  to  give 
what  light  may  be  required  by  night.  Falsehood 
serves  as  a  blind  man's  dog  to  jealousy.  Othello 
the  negro  and  lago  the  traitor  pitted  against  white- 
ness and  candor:  what  more  formidable?  These 
ferocities  of  darkness  act  in  unison.  These  two 
incarnations  of  the  eclipse  conspire,  the  one  roar- 
ing, the  other  sneering,  for  the  tragic  suffocation 
of  light. 

Sound  this  profound  thing.  Othello  is  the 
night,  and  being  night,  and  wishing  to  kill,  what 
does  he  take  to  slay  with?  Poison?  the  club? 
the  axe?  the  knife?  No;  the  pillow.  To  kill  is 
to  lull  to  sleep.  Shakespeare  himself  perhaps  did 
not  take  this  into  account.  The  creator  sometimes, 
almost  unknown  to  himself,  yields  to  his  type,  so 
truly  is  that  type  a  power.  And  it  is  thus  that 
Desdemona,  spouse  of  the  man  Night,  dies,  stifled 
by  the  pillow  upon  which  the  first  kiss  was  given, 
and  which  receives  the  last  sigh. 


244  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Lear  is  the  occasion  for  Cordelia.  Maternity  of 
the  daughter  toward  the  father.  Profound  subject ! 
A  maternity  venerable  among  all  other  materni- 
ties, so  admirably  translated  by  the  legend  of  that 
Roman  girl  who  in  the  depth  of  a  prison  nurses 
her  old  father.  The  young  breast  near  the  white 
beard :  there  is  no  holier  sight !  Such  a  filial 
breast  is  Cordelia ! 

Once  this  figure  dreamed  of  and  found,  Shake- 
speare created  his  drama.  Where  should  he  put 
this  consoling  vision?  In  an  obscure  age.  Shake- 
speare has  taken  the  year  of  the  world  3105,  the 
time  when  Joash  was  king  of  Judah,  Aganippus 
king  of  France,  and  Leir  king  of  England.  The 
whole  earth  was  at  that  time  mysterious.  Picture 
to  yourself  that  epoch.  The  temple  of  Jerusalem 
is  still  quite  new;  the  gardens  of  Semiramis,  con- 
structed nine  hundred  years  before,  are  beginning 
to  crumble ;  the  first  gold  coin  appears  in  yEgina ; 
the  first  balance  is  made  by  Phydon,  tyrant  of 
Argos ;  the  eclipse  of  the  sun  is  calculated  by  the 
Chinese;  three  hundred  and  twelve  years  have 
passed  since  Orestes,  accused  by  the  Eumenides 
before  the  Areopagus,  was  acquitted ;  Hesiod  is 
just  dead;  Homer,  if  he  still  lives,  is  a  hundred 
years  old ;  Lycurgus,  thoughtful  traveller,  re-enters 
Sparta ;  and  one  may  perceive  in  the  depth  of  the 
sombre  cloud  of  the  Orient  the  chariot  of  fire 
which  carries  Elijah  away:  it  is  at  that  period  that 
Leir  —  Lear  —  lives,  and  reigns  over  the  dark  is- 
lands. Jonas,  Holofernes,  Draco,  Solon,  Thespis, 
Nebuchadnezzar,  Anaximenes  who  is  to  invent  the 
signs  of  the  zodiac,  Cyrus,  Zorobabel,  Tarquin, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  24$ 

Pythagoras,  ^Eschylus,  are  not  yet  born ;  Coriola- 
nus,  Xerxes,  Cincinnatus,  Pericles,  Socrates,  Bren- 
nus,  Aristotle,  Timoleon,  Demosthenes,  Alexander, 
Epicurus,  Hannibal,  are  ghosts  awaiting  their  hour 
to  enter  among  men  ;  Judas  Maccabaeus,  Viriatus, 
Popilius,  Jugurtha,  Mithridates,  Marius  and  Sylla, 
Caesar  and  Pompey,  Cleopatra  and  Antony,  are  far 
away  in  the  future ;  and  at  the  moment  when  Lear 
is  king  of  Britain  and  of  Iceland,  there  must  pass 
away  eight  hundred  and  ninety-five  years  before 
Virgil  says,  "  Penitus  toto  divisos  orbe  Britannos," 
and  nine  hundred  and  fifty  years  before  Seneca 
says  "  Ultima  Thule."  The  Picts  and  the  Celts  (the 
Scotch  and  the  English)  are  tattooed.  A  redskin 
of  the  present  day  gives  a  vague  idea  of  an  Eng- 
glishman  then.1  It  is  this  twilight  that  Shake- 
speare has  chosen, — a  long,  dreamy  night  in  which 
the  inventor  is  free  to  put  anything  he  likes :  this 
King  Lear,  and  then  a  king  of  France,  a  duke  of 
Burgundy,  a  duke  of  Cornwall,  a  duke  of  Albany, 
an  earl  of  Kent,  and  an  earl  of  Gloucester.  What 
matters  your  history  to.  him  who  has  humanity? 
Besides,  he  has  with  him  the  legend,  which  is  also 
a  kind  of  science,  and  as  true  as  history,  perhaps, 
although  from  another  point  of  view.  Shake- 
speare agrees  with  Walter  Mapes,  archdeacon  of 
Oxford,  —  that  is  something ;  he  admits,  from 
Brutus  to  Cadwalla,  the  ninety-nine  Celtic  kings 
who  have  preceded  the  Scandinavian  Hengist  and 
the  Saxon  Horsa:  and  since  he  believes  in  Mul- 
mutius,  Cinigisil,  Ceolulf,  Cassibelan,  Cymbeline, 

1  Victor  Hugo  is  responsible  for  the  words  "  English "  and 
"Englishman,"  instead  of  "British"  and  " Briton."  —  TR. 


246  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Cynulphus,  Arviragus,  Guiderius,  Escuin,  Cudred, 
Vortigern,  Arthur,  Uther  Pendragon,  he  has  every 
right  to  believe  in  King  Lear  and  to  create  Corde- 
lia. This  site  adopted,  the  place  for  the  scene 
marked  out,  the  foundation  laid  deep,  he  takes  all 
in  hand  and  builds  his  work,  —  unheard-of  edifice. 
He  takes  tyranny,  of  which  at  a  later  period  he 
will  make  weakness,  —  Lear ;  he  takes  treason,  — 
Edmund ;  he  takes  devotion,  —  Kent ;  he  takes 
Ingratitude,  which  begins  with  a  caress,  and  he 
gives  to  this  monster  two  heads,  —  Goneril,  whom 
the  legend  calls  Gornerille,  and  Regan,  whom  the 
legend  calls  Ragaii ; l  he  takes  paternity  ;  he  takes 
royalty ;  he  takes  feudality  ;  he  takes  ambition ; 
he  takes  madness,  which  he  divides,  and  he  places 
face  to  face  three  madmen  —  the  King's  buffoon, 
madman  by  trade ;  Edgar  of  Gloucester,  mad  for 
prudence'  sake  ;  the  King,  mad  through  misery. 
It  is  at  the  summit  of  this  tragic  pile  that  he  sets 
the  bending  form  of  Cordelia. 

There  are  some  formidable  cathedral  towers,  —  as, 
for  instance,  the  Giralda  of  Seville,  —  which  seem 
made  all  complete,  with  their  spirals,  their  stair- 
cases, their  sculptures,  their  cellars,  their  csecums, 
their  aerial  cells,  their  sounding  chambers,  their 
bells,  their  wailing,  and  their  mass  and  their  spire, 
and  all  their  vastness,  in  order  to  support  at  their 
summit  an  angel  spreading  its  golden  wings.  Such 
is  the  drama,  '  King  Lear.' 

The   father   is    the    pretext   for   the   daughter. 

1  In  Holinshed's  Chronicle,  Shakespeare's  source,  the  names 
are,  Gonorilla,  Regan,  and  Cordeilla ;  in  Layamon's  '  Brut/  Gor- 
noille,  Regan,  and  Cordoille  or  Gordoylle.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  247 

That  admirable  human  creature,  Lear,  serves  as 
a  support  to  this  ineffable  divine  creation,  Cor- 
delia. All  that  chaos  of  crimes,  vices,  manias,  and 
miseries  finds  its  justification  in  this  shining  vision 
of  virtue.  Shakespeare,  bearing  Cordelia  in  his 
brain,  in  creating  this  tragedy  was  like  a  god  who, 
having  an  Aurora  to  establish,  should  make  a 
world  to  put  her  in. 

And  what  a  figure  is  that  father !  What  a 
caryatid  !  It  is  man  stooping.  He  does  nothing 
but  shift  his  burdens  for  others  that  are  heavier. 
The  more  the  old  man  becomes  enfeebled,  the 
more  his  load  augments.  He  lives  under  an  over- 
burden. He  bears  at  first  power,  then  ingratitude, 
then  isolation,  then  despair,  then  hunger  and  thirst, 
then  madness,  then  all  Nature.  Clouds  overcast 
him,  forests  heap  their  shadow  upon  him,  the  hur- 
ricane swoops  down  upon  the  nape  of  his  neck,  the 
tempest  makes  his  mantle  heavy  as  lead,  the  rain 
weighs  upon  his  shoulders,  he  walks  bent  and 
haggard  as  if  he  had  the  two  knees  of  Night  upon 
his  back.  Dismayed  and  yet  colossal,  he  flings  to 
the  winds  and  to  the  hail  this  epic  cry :  "  Why 
do  ye  hate  me,  tempests?  Why  do  ye  persecute 
me?  Ye  are  not  my  daughters"**-  And  then  all 
is  over;  the  light  is  extinguished;  Reason  loses 
courage,  and  leaves  him;  Lear  is  in  his  dotage. 
This  old  man,  being  childish,  requires  a  mother. 
His  daughter  appears,  his  only  daughter,  Cordelia. 

1  "  Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters : 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness  ; 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children, 

You  owe  me  no  subscription." 

Act  iii.,  Scene  ii. 


248  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

For  the  two  others,  Regan  and  Goneril,  are  no 
longer  his  daughters,  —  save  so  far  as  to  entitle 
them  to  the  name  of  parricides. 

Cordelia  approaches,  —  "  Sir,  do  you  know  me?  " 
"  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know,"  replies  the  old  man, 
with  the  sublime  clairvoyance  of  frenzy.  From 
this  moment  the  filial  nursing  begins.  Cordelia 
applies  herself  to  nursing  this  old  despairing  soul, 
dying  of  inanition  in  hatred.  Cordelia  nourishes 
Lear  with  love,  and  his  courage  revives  ;  she 
nourishes  him  with  respect,  and  the  smile  returns ; 
she  nourishes  him  with  hope,  and  confidence  is 
restored  ;  she  nourishes  him  with  wisdom,  and 
reason  awakens.  Lear,  convalescent,  rises  again, 
and  step  by  step  returns  again  to  life  ;  the 
child  becomes  again  an  old  man,  the  old  man 
becomes  a  man  again.  And  behold  him  happy, 
this  wretched  one !  It  is  upon  this  expansion  of 
happiness  that  the  catastrophe  is  hurled  down. 
Alas !  there  are  traitors,  there  are  perjurers,  there 
are  murderers.  Cordelia  dies.  Nothing  more 
heart-rending  than  this.  The  old  man  is  stunned ; 
he  no  longer  understands  anything;  and,  embrac- 
ing her  corpse,  he  expires.  He  dies  upon  his 
daughter's  breast.  He  is  saved  from  the  supreme 
despair  of  remaining  behind  her  among  the  living, 
a  poor  shadow,  to  feel  the  place  in  his  heart  empty, 
and  to  seek  for  his  soul,  carried  away  by  that  sweet 
being  who  is  departed.  O  God  !  those  whom  Thou 
lovest  Thou  takest  away. 

To  live  after  the  flight  of  the  angel ;  to  be  the 
father  orphaned  of  his  child  ;  to  be  the  eye  that  no 
longer  has  light;  to  be  the  deadened  heart  that 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  249 

knows  no  more  joy ;  from  time  to  time  to  stretch 
the  hands  into  obscurity  and  try  to  reclasp  a  being 
who  was  there  (where,  then,  can  she  be  ?) ;  to  feel 
himself  forgotten  in  that  departure  ;  to  have  lost  all 
reason  for  being  here  below;  to  be  henceforth  a 
man  who  goes  to  and  fro  before  a  sepulchre,  not 
received,  not  admitted,  —  this  is  indeed  a  gloomy 
destiny.  Thou  hast  done  well,  poet,  to  kill  this 
old  man.1 

1  Perhaps  the  reader  will  pardon,  in  view  of  the  remarkable 
parallelism,  a  reference  to  Charles  Lamb's  '  Essay  on  the  Trage- 
dies of  Shakespeare,'  which  Victor  Hugo  probably  never  saw. 
"  A  happy  ending  !  as  if  the  living  martyrdom  that  Lear  had 
gone  through,  —  the  flaying  of  his  feelings  alive,  —  did  not  make  a 
fair  dismissal  from  the  stage  of  life  the  only  decorous  thing  for 
him."  — TR. 


BOOK    III. 

ZOILUS   AS   ETERNAL  AS   HOMER. 


CHAPTER   I. 

"  That  vulgar  flatt'rer  of  the  ignoble  herd." l 

THIS   line   is   by   La   Harpe,  who   aims   it   at 
Shakespeare.      Elsewhere   La   Harpe   says  : 
"  Shakespeare  panders  to  the  mob." 

Voltaire,  as  a  matter  of  course,  reproaches  Shake- 
speare with  antithesis  :  that  is  well.  And  La  Beau- 
melle  reproaches  Voltaire  with  antithesis:  that  is 
better. 

Voltaire,  when  it  is  a  personal  matter  with  him, 
pro  doma  sua,  gets  angry.  "  But,"  he  writes,  "  this 
Langleviel,  alias  La  Beaumelle,  is  an  ass.  I  defy 
you  to  find  in  any  poet,  in  any  book,  a  fine  thing 
which  is  not  an  image  or  an  antithesis." 

Voltaire's  criticism  is  double-edged.  He  wounds 
and  is  wounded.  This  is  how  he  characterizes  the 
Ecclesiastes  and  the  Song  of  Songs  :  "Works 
without  order,  full  of  low  images  and  coarse  ex- 
pressions." 

1  "  Ce  courtisan  grossier  du  profane  vulgaire." 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

A  little  while  after  he  exclaims,  furious,  — 
"  The  barb'rous  Crebillon  's  preferred  to  me  I  " l 

An  idler  of  the  CEil-de-Boeuf,  wearing  the  red 
heel  and  the  blue  ribbon,  a  stripling  and  a  marquis, 
—  M.  de  Crequi,  —  comes  to  Ferney,  and  writes 
with  an  air  of  superiority :  "  I  have  seen  Voltaire, 
that  old  dotard." 

That  the  unjust  should  receive  a  counterstroke 
from  injustice,  is  nothing  more  than  right;  and 
Voltaire  gets  what  he  deserves.  But  to  throw 
stones  at  men  of  genius  is  a  general  law,  and  all 
have  to  bear  it.  To  be  insulted  is,  it  seems,  a 
coronation. 

For  Salmasius,  ^Eschylus  is  nothing  but  farrago.2 
Quintilian  understands  nothing  of  '  The  Oresteia.' 
Sophocles  mildly  scorned  ^Eschylus.  "  When  he 
does  well,  he  does  not  know  it,"  said  Sophocles. 
Racine  rejected  everything,  except  two  or  three 
scenes  of '  The  Choephori,'  which,  by  a  note  in  the 
margin  of  his  copy  of  yEschylus,  he  condescended 
to  spare.  Fontenelle  says  in  his  'Remarks' :  "One 
does  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  '  Prometheus ' 
of  ^Eschylus.  ^Eschylus  is  a  kind  of  madman." 
The  eighteenth  century,  without  exception,  ridi- 
cules Diderot  for  admiring  'The  Eumenides.' 

"  The  whole  of  Dante  is  a  hotch-potch,"  says 
Chaudon.  "  Michael  Angelo  wearies  me,"  says 

1  "  On  m'ose  preferer  Crebillon  le  barbare  ! " 

2  The  passage  in  Salmasius  is  curious,  and  worth  transcribing : 
"  Unus  ejus   Agamemnon    obscuritate    superat    quantum    est 

librorum  sacrorum  cum  suis  hebraismis  et  synanismis  et  tota 
hellenistica  supellectile  vel  farragine."  —  De  Re  Hellenisticd,  p.  38, 
ep.  dedic. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Joseph  de  Maistre.  "  Not  one  of  the  eight  come- 
dies of  Cervantes  is  tolerable,"  says  La  Harpe. 
"  It  is  a  pity  that  Moliere  does  not  know  how  to 
write,"  says  Fenelon.  "  Moliere  is  a  base  mounte- 
bank," says  Bossuet.  "A  schoolboy  would  have 
avoided  the  mistakes  of  Milton,"  says  the  Abbe 
Trublet,  —  an  authority  as  good  as  any  other. 
"Corneille  exaggerates,  Shakespeare  raves,"  says 
Voltaire  again, — Voltaire,  who  must  ever  be  re- 
sisted, and  ever  defended. 

"  Shakespeare,"  says  Ben  Jonson,  "  talked  heavily 
and  without  any  wit."  How  prove  the  contrary? 
What  is  written  abides ;  talk  passes  away.  Still,  so 
much  stands  denied  to  Shakespeare.  That  man  of 
genius  had  no  wit :  how  that  flatters  the  numberless 
men  of  wit  who  have  no  genius  ! 

Some  time  before  Scudery  called  Corneille 
"corneille  deplumee"  (unfeathered  carrion-crow), 
Greene  had  called  Shakespeare  "a  crow  beautified 
with  our  feathers."  In  1752  Diderot  was  sent  to 
the  fortress  of  Vincennes  for  having  published  the 
first  volume  of  the  '  Encyclopaedia/  and  the  great 
success  of  the  year  was  a  print  sold  on  the  quays 
which  represented  a  Gray  Friar  flogging  Diderot 
Death  is  always  an  extenuating  circumstance  for 
those  guilty  of  genius  ;  but  although  Weber  is  dead, 
he  is  ridiculed  in  Germany,  and  for  thirty-three 
years  a  masterpiece  has  been  disposed  of  by  a 
pun.  *  Euryanthe '  is  called  the  '  Ennuyante ' 
[tedious  woman]. 

D'Alembert  hits  at  one  blow  Calderon  and 
Shakespeare.  He  writes  to  Voltaire  [letter  cv.]  : 
"  I  have  announced  to  the  Academy  your  '  Herac- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  253 

lius '  of  Calderon.  The  Academy  will  read  it  with 
as  much  pleasure  as  the  harlequinade  of  Gilles 
Shakespeare." 

That  everything  should  be  perpetually  re-exam- 
ined, that  everything  should  be  contested,  even  the 
incontestable,  —  what  does  it  matter?  The  eclipse 
is  a  good  test  of  truth  as  well  as  of  liberty.  Genius, 
being  truth  and  liberty,  has  a  claim  to  persecution. 
What  does  genius  care  for  what  is  transient?  It 
has  been,  and  will  be  again.  It  is  not  toward  the 
sun  that  the  eclipse  casts  a  shadow. 

Anything  admits  of  being  written.  Paper  is 
very  patient.  Last  year  a  grave  review  printed 
this  :  "  Homer  is  about  to  go  out  of  fashion." 

The  judgment  passed  on  the  philosopher,  on  the 
artist,  on  the  poet,  is  completed  by  the  portrait  of 
the  man. 

Byron  killed  his  tailor  ;  Moliere  married  his 
own  daughter  ;  Shakespeare  "  loved  "  Lord 
Southampton ! 

"  At  last,  with  their  appetites  whetted  for  vices, 
The  pit  roared  for  the  author/that  compend  of  all."  l 

This  compendium  of  all  the  vices  is  Beaumarchais. 

As  for  Byron,  we  mention  this  name  a  second 
time  ;  he  is  worth  the  trouble.  Read  '  Glenarvon/ 
and  listen,  on  the  subject  of  Byron's  abominations, 

to  Lady  Bl ,  whom  he  had  loved,  and  who,  of 

course,  resented  it. 

Phidias  was  a  procurer ;  Socrates  was  an  apos- 
tate and  a  thief,  "  a  detacher  of  mantles ;  "  Spinoza 

1  "  Et  pour  voir  a  la  fin  tous  les  vices  ensemble, 
Le  parterre  en  tumulte  a  demande  1'auteur." 


254  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

was  a  renegade  and  a  legacy-hunter ;  Dante  was  a 
peculator ;  Michael  Angelo  was  cudgelled  by  Julius 
II.,  and  quietly  put  up  with  it  for  the  sake  of  five 
hundred  crowns ;  D' Aubigne  was  a  courtier  sleep- 
ing in  the  king's  closet,  ill-tempered  when  he  was 
not  paid,  and  to  whom  Henry  IV.  was  too  kind ; 
Diderot  was  a  libertine ;  Voltaire  a  miser ;  Milton 
was  venal,  —  he  received  a  thousand  pounds  ster- 
ling for  his  Latin  apology  for  regicide :  '  Defensio 
pro  se,'1  etc.  Who  says  these  things?  who  re- 
lates these  stories?  That  good  person,  your  old 
fawning  friend,  O  tyrants;  your  old  comrade,  O 
traitors ;  your  old  auxiliary,  O  bigots ;  your  old 
comforter,  O  imbeciles  !  —  Calumny. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LET  us  add  one  particular,  —  diatribe  is,  upon 
occasion,  a  means  of  government. 

Thus  in  the  print  of  '  Diderot  flogged/  the 
hand  of  the  police  appeared,  and  the  engraver  of 
the  Gray  Friar  must  have  been  of  close  kin  to  the 
turnkey  of  Vincennes.  Governments,  more  pas- 
sionate than  is  necessary,  fail  to  keep  aloof  from 
the  animosities  of  the  crowd  below.  The  political 
persecution  of  former  days  —  it  is  of  former  days 
that  we  are  speaking  —  willingly  availed  itself  of 
a  dash  of  literary  persecution.  Certainly,  hatred 

1  The  work  referred  to  is  probably  Milton's  '  Defensio  Populi 
Anglicani/  written  by  way  of  reply  to  Salmasius.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  255 

hates  without  being  paid  for  it.  Envy,  to  do  its 
work  does  not  need  a  minister  of  state  to  encourage 
and  pension  it,  and  there  is  such  a  thing  as  unofficial 
calumny.  But  a  money-bag  does  no  harm.  When 
Roy,  the  court-poet,  rhymed  against  Voltaire, 
"  Tell  me,  daring  stoic,"  etc.,  the  position  of 
treasurer  of  the  excise  office  of  Clermont,  and  the 
cross  of  St.  Michael,  were  not  likely  to  damp  his 
enthusiasm  for  the  court,  and  his  spirit  against  Vol- 
taire. A  gratuity  is  pleasant  to  receive  after  a  ser- 
vice rendered.  The  masters  upstairs  smile;  you 
receive  the  agreeable  order  to  insult  some  one  you 
detest ;  you  obey  amply ;  you  are  free  to  bite  ad 
libitum;  you  take  your  fill:  it  is  all  profit;  you 
hate,  and  you  give  satisfaction.  Formerly,  autho- 
rity had  its  scribes.  It  was  a  pack  of  hounds  as 
good  as  any  other.  Against  the  free  rebellious 
spirit,  the  despot  would  let  loose  the  scribbler.  To 
torture  was  not  sufficient;  teasing  was  resorted  to 
likewise.  Trissotin  would  hold  a  confabulation 
with  Vidocq,  and  from  their  tete-a-tete  a  complex 
inspiration  would  result.  Pedantry,  thus  supported 
by  the  police,  felt  itself  an  integral  part  of  authority, 
and  strengthened  its  aesthetics  with  legal  means. 
It  grew  haughty.  No  arrogance  is  equal  to  that 
of  the  base  pedant  raised  to  the  dignity  of  bum- 
bailiff.  See,  after  the  struggle  between  the  Armin- 
ians  and  the  Gomarists,  with  what  a  superb  air 
Sparanus  Buyter,  his  pockets  full  of  Maurice  of 
Nassau's  florins,  denounces  Joost  Vondel,  and 
proves,  Aristotle  in  hand,  that  the  Palamedes  of 
Vondel's  tragedy  is  no  other  than  Barneveldt !  — 
useful  rhetoric,  by  which  Buyter  obtains  against 


256  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Vondel    a  fine  of  three  hundred  crowns,  and  for 
himself  a  fat  prebend  at  Dordrecht. 

The  author  of  the  book,  '  Literary  Quarrels,'  the 
Abbe  Irail,  canon  of  Monistrol,  asks  of  La  Beau- 
melle,  "  Why  do  you  insult  M.  de  Voltaire  so 
much  ? "  "  It  is  because  it  sells  well,"  replies  La 
Beaumelle.  And  Voltaire,  informed  of  the  ques- 
tion and  of  the  reply,  concludes :  "  Precisely  so : 
the  simpleton  buys  the  writing,  and  the  minister 
buys  the  writer.  It  sells  well." 

Fran^oise  d'Issembourg  de  Happoncourt,  wife 
of  Francois  Hugo,  chamberlain  of  Lorraine,  and 
celebrated  under  the  name  of  Madame  de  Graf- 
figny,  writes  to  M.  Devaux,  reader  to  King  Stan- 
islaus :  "  My  dear  Pampan,  Atys  being  sent  away 
(Read:  Voltaire  being  banished),  the  police  cause 
to  be  published  against  him  a  swarm  of  small  writ- 
ings and  pamphlets,  which  are  sold  at  a  sou  in  the 
cafes  and  theatres.  That  would  displease  the  Mar- 
quise,1 if  it  did  not  please  the  King." 

Desfontaines,  that  other  insulter  of  Voltaire,  — 
who  had  rescued  him  from  the  mad-house  of 
Bicetre,  —  said  to  the  Abb6  Provost,  who  advised 
him  to  make  his  peace  with  the  philosopher:  "If 
Algiers  did  not  make  war,  Algiers  would  die  of 
hunger." 

This  Desfontaines,  also  an  abbe\  died  of  dropsy ; 
and  his  well-known  tastes  gained  for  him  this  epi- 
taph :  "  Periit  aqua  qui  meruit  igne." 

Among  the  publications  suppressed  in  the  last 
century  by  decree  of  parliament,  is  found  a  docu- 
ment printed  by  Quinet  and  Besogne,  and  destroyed 

1  Madame  de  Pompadour. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

doubtless  because  of  the  revelations  which  it  con- 
tained, and  of  which  the  title  gave  promise :  '  The 
Aretiniad ;  :  or,  Price-list  of  Libellers  and  Abusive 
Men  of  Letters.' 

Madame  de  Stael,  exiled  to  a  distance  of  forty- 
five  leagues  from  Paris,  stops  exactly  at  the  forty- 
five  leagues,  —  at  Beaumont-sur-Loire,  —  and  thence 
writes  to  her  friends.  Here  is  a  fragment  of  a  let- 
ter addressed  to  Madame  Gay,  mother  of  the  illus- 
trious Madame  de  Girardin :  "  Ah,  dear  madame, 
what  a  persecution  are  these  exiles !  "  (We  sup- 
press some  lines.)  "  You  write  a  book ;  it  is  for- 
bidden to  speak  of  it.  Your  name  in  the  journals 
displeases.  Permission  is,  however,  fully  given  to 
speak  ill  of  it" 


CHAPTER   III. 

SOMETIMES  the  diatribe  is  sprinkled  with  quick- 
lime. 

All  these  black  pen-nibs  end  by  digging  dismal 
pits. 

Among  the  writers  abhorred  for  having  been 
useful,  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  stand  in  the  first  rank. 
Living,  they  were  lacerated ;  dead,  they  were  man- 
gled. To  have  a  hack  at  these  renowned  ones  was 
a  splendid  deed,  and  set  down  as  such  in  the  bills 
of  service  of  literary  catchpolls.  To  insult  Voltaire 
even  once,  was  enough  to  give  one  the  rank  of 

1  From  Pietro  Aretino,  the  literary  jackal  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. —  TR. 


258  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

pedant-laureate.  Men  of  power  egged  on  the  men 
of  libel.  A  swarm  of  mosquitoes  settled  upon 
these  two  illustrious  men,  and  the  insects  are  still 
humming. 

Voltaire  is  the  more  hated,  being  the  greater. 
Everything  was  good  for  an  attack  on  him,  every- 
thing was  a  pretext:  the  princesses  of  France, 
Newton,  Madame  du  Chatelet,  the  Princess  of  Prus- 
sia, Maupertuis,  Frederick,  the  Encyclopaedia,  the 
Academy,  even  Labarre,  Sirven,  and  Galas.  Never 
a  truce.  His  popularity  suggested  to  Joseph  de 
Maistre  this  line:  "Paris  crowned  him;  Sodom 
would  have  banished  him."  Arouet  was  translated 
into  A  rouer.1  At  the  house  of  the  Abbess  of 
Nivelles,  Princess  of  the  Holy  Empire,  half  recluse 
and  half  wordling,  —  having  recourse,  it  is  said,  in 
order  to  make  her  cheeks  rosy,  to  the  method  of 
the  Abbess  of  Montbazon,  — charades  were  played ; 
among  others,  this  one :  "  The  first  syllable  is  his 
fortune;  the  second  should  be  his  duty."  The 
word  was  Vol-taire.2  A  celebrated  member  of  the 
Academy  of  Sciences,  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  seeing 
in  1803,  in  the  library  of  the  Institute,  this  inscrip- 
tion in  the  centre  of  a  crown  of  laurels,  "  To  the 
Great  Voltaire,"  scratched  with  his  nail  the  last 
three  letters,  leaving  only  "  To  the  Great  Volta !  " 

Around  Voltaire  especially  there  is  a  sanitary 
cordon  of  priests,  the  Abbe  Desfontaines  at  the 
head,  the  Abbe  Nicolardot  at  the  tail.  Freron, 
although  a  layman,  is  a  critic  after  the  priestly 
fashion,  and  belongs  to  this  band. 

1  Deserving  of  being  broken  on  the  wheel.  — TR. 

2  Volt  "  theft,"  taire,  "  to  be  silent.  "  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2$$ 

It  was  at  the  Bastile  that  Voltaire  made  his  debut. 
His  cell  was  next  to  the  dungeon  in  which  Bernard 
Palissy  had  died.  Young,  he  tasted  the  prison; 
old,  he  tasted  exile.  He  was  kept  twenty-seven 
years  away  from  Paris. 

Jean-Jacques,  being  wild  and  somewhat  solitary, 
was,  in  consequence  of  these  traits,  hunted  about. 
Paris  issued  a  writ  against  his  person ;  Geneva  ex- 
pelled him ;  Neufchatel  rejected  him  :  Motiers- 
Travers  condemned  him;  Bienne  stoned  him; 
Berne  gave  him  the  choice  between  prison  and 
expulsion;  London,  hospitable  London,  scoffed 
at  him. 

Both  died  at  about  the  same  time.1  Death 
caused  no  interruption  to  the  outrages.  A  man  is 
dead;  insult  does  not  slacken  pursuit  for  such  a 
trifle.  Hatred  can  feast  on  a  corpse.  Libels  con- 
tinued, piously  rabid  against  such  glory. 

The  Revolution  came,  and  placed  them  in  the 
Pantheon. 

At  the  beginning  of  this  century,  children  were 
often  brought  to  see  these  two  graves.  They  were 
told,  "  It  is  here  !  "  That  made  a  strong  impression 
on  their  minds.  They  carried  forever  in  their 
thought  that  vision  of  two  sepulchres  side  by 
side:  the  elliptical  arch  of  the  vault,  the  antique 
form  of  the  two  monuments  provisionally  covered 
with  wood  painted  like  marble ;  these  two  names, 
ROUSSEAU,  VOLTAIRE,  in  the  twilight ;  and  the 
hand  bearing  a  torch  which  was  thrust  out  of 
the  tomb  of  Jean-Jacques. 

Louis  XVIII.  returned.  The  restoration  of  the 
1  Voltaire  died  May  30,  1778 ;  Rousseau,  four  days  later.  —  TR. 


26O  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Stuarts  had  torn  Cromwell  from  his  grave;  the 
restoration  of  the  Bourbons  could  not  do  less  for 
Voltaire. 

One  night,  in  May,  1814,  about  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  a  cab  stopped  near  the  city-gate  of 
La  Gare,  opposite  Bercy,  at  a  door  in  a  board  fence. 
This  fence  surrounded  a  large  vacant  piece  of 
ground,  reserved  for  the  projected  warehouses,  and 
belonging  to  the  city  of  Paris.  The  cab  had  come 
from  the  Pantheon,  and  the  coachman  had  been 
ordered  to  take  the  most  deserted  streets.  The 
fence-gate  was  opened.  Some  men  alighted  from 
the  cab  and  entered  the  inclosure.  Two  carried 
a  sack  between  them.  They  were  conducted,  so 
tradition  asserts,  by  the  Marquis  de  Puymaurin, 
afterward  deputy  to  the  Invisible  Chamber l  and 
Director  of  the  Mint,  accompanied  by  his  brother, 
the  Comte  de  Puymaurin.  Other  men,  some  in 
cassocks,  were  awaiting  them.  They  proceeded 
toward  a  hole  dug  in  the  middle  of  the  field.  This 
hole  —  according  to  one  of  the  witnesses,  who  has 
since  been  a  waiter  at  the  Marronniers  inn  at  La 
Rapee  —  was  round,  and  looked  like  a  dry  well. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  hole  was  quicklime.  These 
men  said  nothing,  and  had  no  lanterns.  The  wan 
daybreak  gave  a  ghastly  light.  The  sack  was 
opened.  It  was  full  of  bones.  These  were  the 
intermingled  bones  of  Jean-Jacques  and  of  Voltaire, 
which  had  just  been  withdrawn  from  the  Pantheon. 
The  mouth  of  the  sack  was  brought  close  to  the 
hole,  and  the  bones  were  thrown  into  that  black 

1  "  Chambre  introuvable,"  referring  to  the  French  Chamber  of 
Deputies  of  1815.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  26 1 

pit.  The  two  skulls  struck  against  each  other:  a 
spark,  not  likely  to  be  seen  by  such  men  as  those 
present,  was  doubtless  exchanged  between  the  head 
that  had  made  'The  Philosophical  Dictionary'  and 
the  head  that  had  made  'The  Social  Contract/  and 
reconciled  them.  When  that  was  done,  when  the 
sack  had  been  shaken,  when  Voltaire  and  Rousseau 
had  been  emptied  into  that  hole,  a  digger  seized  a 
spade,  threw  into  the  opening  the  heap  of  earth  at 
the  side,  and  filled  up  the  grave.  The  others 
stamped  with  their  feet  on  the  ground,  so  as  to 
remove  from  it  the  appearance  of  having  been 
freshly  disturbed;  one  of  the  assistants  took  for 
his  trouble  the  sack,  —  as  the  hangman  takes  the 
clothing  of  his  victim  ;  they  left  the  inclosure, 
shut  the  gate,  got  into  the  cab  without  saying  a 
word,  and  hastily,  before  the  sun  had  risen,  these 
men  got  away. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SALMASIUS,  that  worse  Scaliger,  does  not  com- 
prehend ^Eschylus,  and  rejects  him.  Who  is  to 
blame?  Salmasius  much;  ^Eschylus  little. 

The  attentive  man  who  reads  great  works  feels 
at  times,  in  the  midst  of  his  reading,  certain  sudden 
chills,  followed  by  a  kind  of  excess  of  heat, — 
"  I  no  longer  understand  !  .  .  .  I  understand  !  "  — 
shivering  and  burning,  something  which  causes 
him  to  be  a  little  upset  at  the  same  time  that  he 
is  very  much  struck.  Only  minds  of  the  first 


262  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

order,  only  men  of  supreme  genius,  subject  to 
absences  in  the  infinite,  give  to  the  reader  this 
singular  sensation,  —  stupor  for  the  most,  ecstasy  for 
a  few.  These  few  are  the  children  of  light.  As 
we  have  already  observed,  these  select  few,  gather- 
ing from  century  to  century,  and  continually  gain- 
ing recruits,  at  last  become  numerous,  and  make 
up  the  supreme  company,  the  definitive  public  of 
genius,  and  like  it,  sovereign. 

It  is  with  this  public  that,  first  or  last,  one  must 
deal. 

Meanwhile  there  is  another  public ;  there  are 
other  appraisers,  other  judges,  to  whom  we  have 
just  now  given  a  word.  These  are  not  content. 

The  men  of  genius,  the  great  minds,  —  this 
^Eschylus,  this  Isaiah,  this  Juvenal,  this  Dante, 
this  Shakespeare,  —  are  beings  imperious,  tumul- 
tuous, violent,  passionate,  hard  riders  of  winged 
steeds,  "  overleaping  all  boundaries,"  having  their 
own  goal,  which  itself  "  is  beyond  the  mark," 
"  exaggerated,"  taking  scandalous  strides,  flying 
abruptly  from  one  idea  to  another,  and  from  the 
North  Pole  to  the  South  Pole,  crossing  the  heavens 
in  three  steps,  making  little  allowance  for  the  scant 
of  breath,  shaken  by  all  the  winds  of  space,  and 
at  the  same  time  full  of  some  unaccountable 
equestrian  confidence  amidst  their  bounds  across 
the  abyss,  intractable  to  the  "  Aristarchs,"  refrac- 
tory to  official  rhetoric,  not  amiable  to  asthmatic 
literati,  unsubdued  to  academic  hygiene,  preferring 
the  foam  of  Pegasus  to  ass's-milk. 

The  worthy  pedants  are  kind  enough  to  fear  for 
them.  The  ascent  occasions  a  calculation  of  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  263 

fall.  Compassionate  cripples  lament  for  Shake- 
speare. He  is  mad ;  he  mounts  too  high !  The 
mob  of  college  scouts  (they  are  a  mob)  look  on  in 
wonder,  and  get  angry.  ^Eschylus  and  Dante 
make  these  connoisseurs  blink  every  moment. 
This  ^Eschylus  is  lost !  This  Dante  is  near  falling ! 
A  god  spreads  his  wings  for  flight:  the  Philis- 
tines cry  out  to  him,  "  Mind  yourself!  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

BESIDES,  these  men  of  genius  are  disconcerting. 

There  is  no  reckoning  with  them.  Their  lyric 
fury  obeys  them ;  they  interrupt  it  when  they  like. 
They  seem  wild.  Suddenly  they  stop.  Their 
frenzy  becomes  melancholy.  They  are  seen  among 
the  precipices,  alighting  on  a  peak  and  folding 
their  wings  ;  and  then  they  give  way  to  meditation. 
Their  meditation  is  not  less  surprising  than  their 
transport.  Just  now  they  were  soaring,  now  they  are 
sinking  shafts.  But  their  audacity  is  ever  the  same. 

They  are  pensive  giants.  Their  Titanic  revery 
needs  the  absolute  and  the  unfathomable  for  its 
expansion.  They  meditate  as  the  suns  shine,  con- 
ditioned by  the  medium  of  the  abyss  around  them. 

Their  roving  to  and  fro  in  the  ideal  dizzies  the 
observer.  Nothing  is  too  high  for  them,  and  noth- 
ing too  low.  They  pass  from  the  pigmy  to  the 
Cyclops,  from  Polyphemus  to  the  Myrmidons, 
from  Queen  Mab  to  Caliban,  from  a  love-affair  to 
a  deluge,  from  Saturn's  rings  to  a  child's  doll. 


264  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Sinite parvulos  venire.  One  of  their  eyes  is  a  tele- 
scope, the  other  a  microscope.  They  investigate 
familiarly  those  two  frightful  inverse  depths,  —  the 
infinitely  great,  and  the  infinitely  little. 

And  one  should  not  be  angry  with  them !  and 
one  should  not  reproach  them  for  all  this !  In- 
deed, what  would  result  if  such  excesses  were  to 
be  tolerated  ?  What !  No  scruple  in  the  choice 
of  subjects,  horrible  or  sad ;  and  the  thought,  even 
if  it  be  distressing  and  formidable,  always  relent- 
lessly followed  up  to  its  extreme  consequence ! 
These  poets  see  only  their  own  aim ;  and  in  every- 
thing they  have  an  immoderate  way  of  doing  things. 
What  is  Job?  A  maggot  upon  a  sore.  What  is 
the  Divina  Commedia?  A  series  of  torments. 
What  is  the  Iliad?  A  collection  of  plagues  and 
wounds.  Not  an  artery  cut  which  is  not  com- 
placently described.  Go  about  for  opinions  of 
Homer ;  ask  Scaliger,  Terrasson,  Lamotte,  what 
they  think  of  him.  The  fourth  of  a  canto  to  the 
shield  of  Achilles — what  want  of  proportion  !  He 
who  does  -not  know  when  to  stop,  never  knew  how 
to  write.  These  poets  agitate,  disturb,  trouble, 
upset,  overwhelm,  make  everything  shiver,  break 
things  occasionally  here  and  there  ;  they  may  do 
mischief,  —  the  thing  is  serious  !  Thus  speak  the 
Athenaea,  the  Sorbonnes,  the  sworn  professors,  the 
societies  called  "  learned,"  Salmasius,  successor  of 
Scaliger  at  the  University  of  Leyden,  and  the 
Philistines  after  them,  —  all  who  represent  in  liter- 
ature and  art  the  great  party  of  order.  What  can 
be  more  natural?  The  cough  quarrels  with  the 
hurricane. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  26$ 

Those  who  are  poor  in  wit  are  joined  by  those 
who  have  too  much  wit.  The  sceptics  join  hands 
with  the  simpletons.  Men  of  genius,  with  few  ex- 
ceptions, are  proud  and  stern ;  that  is  in  the  very 
marrow  of  their  bones.  They  have  in  their  com- 
pany Juvenal,  Agrippa  d'Aubigne,  and  Milton; 
they  are  prone  to  harshness ;  they  despise  the 
panetn  et  circenses  ;  they  seldom  grow  sociable,  and 
they  growl.  People  do  well  to  rally  them  in  a 
pleasant  way. 

Aha,  Poet !  Aha,  Milton  !  Aha,  Juvenal !  So 
you  keep  up  resistance !  you  perpetuate  disinter- 
estedness !  you  bring  together  those  two  firebrands, 
faith  and  will,  in  order  to  draw  flame  from  them ! 
So  there  is  something  of  the  Vestal  in  you,  old 
grumbler  !  So  you  have  an  altar,  —  your  country  ! 
you  have  a  tripod,  —  the  ideal !  you  believe  in  the 
rights  of  man,  in  emancipation,  in  the  future,  in 
progress,  in  the  beautiful,  in  the  just,  in  what  is 
great !  Take  care  ;  you  are  behindhand !  All 
this  virtue  is  infatuation.  You  emigrate  with  honor, 
—  but  you  emigrate.  This  heroism  is  no  longer  in 
good  form.  It  no  longer  suits  the  spirit  of  the 
time.  There  comes  a  moment  when  the  sacred 
fire  is  no  longer  fashionable.  Poet,  you  believe  in 
right  and  truth;  you  are  behind  your  age.  Your 
very  immortality  makes  you  a  thing  of  the  past. 

So  much  the  worse,  without  doubt,  for  those 
grumbling  geniuses  accustomed  to  greatness,  and 
scornful  of  what  is  not  great.  They  are  slow  of 
movement  when  honor  is  at  stake;  their  back  is 
struck  with  anchylosis  for  anything  like  bowing 
and  cringing;  when  success  passes  along,  deserved 


266  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

or  not,  but  saluted,  they  have  an  iron  bar  stiffening 
their  vertebral  column.  That  is  their  affair.  So 
much  the  worse  for  those  antique  Romans.  They 
are  ready  to  be  relegated  to  antiquarian  museums. 
To  bristle  up  at  every  turn  may  have  been  all  very 
well  in  former  days ;  these  unkempt  manes  are  no 
longer  worn ;  lions  went  out  of  fashion  with  the 
perukes.  The  French  Revolution  is  nearly  seventy- 
five  years  old ;  at  that  age  dotage  comes.  The 
people  of  the  present  time  mean  to  belong  to  their 
day,  and  even  to  their  minute.  Certainly,  we  find 
no  fault  with  this.  Whatever  is,  must  be;  it  is 
quite  right  that  what  exists  should  exist  ;  the 
forms  of  public  prosperity  are  diverse ;  one  gen- 
eration is  not  bound  to  imitate  another.  Cato  took 
example  from  Phocion  ;  Trimalchio,  who  is  suf- 
ficiently unlike  either,  embodies  the  idea  of  inde- 
pendence. You  bad-tempered  old  fellows,  you 
wish  us  to  emancipate  ourselves?  Let  it  be  so. 
We  disencumber  ourselves  of  the  imitation  of 
Timoleon,  Thrasea,  Artevelde,  Thomas  More, 
Hampden.  This  is  our  way  of  emancipating  our- 
selves. You  wish  for  a  revolt,  —  there  it  is.  You 
wish  for  an  insurrection,  —  we  rise  up  against  our 
rights.  We  enfranchise  ourselves  from  the  solici- 
tudes of  freedom.  Citizenship  is  a  heavy  burden. 
Rights  entangled  with  obligations  are  shackles  to 
one  who  desires  mere  enjoyment.  It  is  fatiguing 
to  be  guided  by  conscience  and  truth  in  all  the 
steps  that  we  take.  We  mean  to  walk  without 
leading-strings  and  without  principles.  Duty  is  a 
chain  ;  we  break  our  shackles.  What  do  you  mean 
by  speaking  to  us  of  Franklin  ?  Franklin  is  a  rather 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  267 

too  servile  copy  of  Aristides.  We  carry  our  horror 
of  servility  so  far  as  to  prefer  Grimod  de  la  Reyniere. 
To  eat  and  drink  well  is  an  aim  in  life.  Each  epoch 
has  its  peculiar  manner  of  being  free.  Feasting  is 
freedom.  This  way  of  reasoning  is  triumphant;  to 
adhere  to  it  is  wise.  There  have  been,  it  is  true, 
epochs  when  people  thought  otherwise.  In  those 
times  the  things  which  were  trodden  on  would 
sometimes  resent  it,  and  would  rebel;  but  that 
was  the  ancient  fashion,  ridiculous  now;  and  tire- 
some people  and  croakers  must  just  be  allowed  to 
go  on  affirming  that  there  was  a  better  notion  of 
right,  justice,  and  honor  in  the  paving-stones  of 
yore  than  in  the  men  of  the  present. 

The  rhetoricians,  official  and  officious,  —  we  have 
pointed  out  already  their  wonderful  sagacity,  —  take 
strong  precautions  against  men  of  genius.  Men  of 
genius  are  but  slightly  academic;  what  is  more, 
they  do  not  abound  in  commonplaces.  They  are 
lyrists,  colorists,  enthusiasts,  enchanters,  possessed, 
exalted,  "  rabid," — we  have  read  the  word,  —  beings 
who,  when  everybody  is  small,  have  a  mania  for 
creating  great  characters ;  in  fact,  they  have  every 
vice.  A  doctor  has  recently  discovered  that  genius 
is  a  variety  of  madness.  They  are  Michael  Angelo 
chiselling  giants,  Rembrandt  painting  with  a  pal- 
ette all  bedaubed  with  the  sun's  rays  ;  they  are 
Dante,  Rabelais,  Shakespeare,  —  excessive.  They 
bring  with  them  a  style  of  art  wild,  howling,  flam- 
ing, dishevelled  like  the  lion  and  the  comet.  Oh, 
shocking !  People  are  right  in  forming  combina- 
tions against  them.  It  is  a  fortunate  circumstance 
that  the  "  teetotallers "  of  eloquence  and  poetry 


268  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

exist.  "  I  admire  pallor,"  said  a  literary  Philistine 
one  day,  —  for  there  is  a  literary  Philistine.  Rhet- 
oricians, solicitous  on  account  of  the  contagions 
and  fevers  which  are  spread  by  genius,  recommend, 
with  a  lofty  wisdom  which  we  have  commended, 
temperance,  moderation,  "  common  sense,"  the  art 
of  keeping  within  bounds  ;  writers  expurgated, 
trimmed,  pruned,  regulated ;  the  worship  of  the 
qualities  that  the  malignant  call  negative,  —  conti- 
nence, abstinence,  Joseph,  Scipio,  the  water-drinkers. 
All  this  is  excellent ;  only  young  students  must  be 
warned  that  by  following  these  sage  precepts  too 
closely  they  run  the  risk  of  glorifying  the  chastity 
of  the  eunuch.  Perhaps  I  admire  Bayard;  I  ad- 
mire Origen  less. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SUMMARY  statement:  Great  minds  are  impor- 
tunate; it  is  judicious  to  restrain  them  a  little. 

After  all,  let  us  admit  it  at  last,  and  complete 
our  statement  :  there  is  some  truth  in  the  re- 
proaches that  are  hurled  at  them.  This  anger  is 
natural.  The  powerful,  the  grand,  the  luminous, 
are,  from  a  certain  point  of  view,  things  calculated 
to  offend.  To  be  surpassed  is  never  agreeable; 
to  feel  one's  own  inferiority  is  to  feel  a  pang.  The 
beautiful  exists  so  truly  by  itself  that  it  certainly 
has  no  need  of  pride;  nevertheless,  given  human 
mediocrity,  the  beautiful  humiliates  at  the  same 
time  that  it  enchants :  it  seems  natural  that  beauty 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  269 

should  be  a  vase  for  pride,  —  a  brimming  vase; 
so  that  the  pleasure  beauty  gives  is  tainted  with 
resentment,  and  the  word  "superb  "  comes  finally  to 
have  two  senses,  one  of  which  breeds  distrust  of  the 
other.  This  is  the  fault  of  the  beautiful,  as  we 
have  already  said.  It  wearies :  a  sketch  by  Pira- 
nesi  disconcerts  you ;  the  hand-grasp  of  Hercules 
bruises  you.  Greatness  is  sometimes  in  the  wrong. 
It  is  ingenuous,  but  obstructive.  The  tempest 
thinks  to  sprinkle  you :  it  drowns  you ;  the  star 
thinks  to  give  light:  it  dazzles,  sometimes  blinds. 
The  Nile  fertilizes,  but  overflows.  Excess  does 
not  comport  with  comfort:  the  deeps  of  space 
form  but  an  inhospitable  dwelling-place  ;  the 
infinite  is  scarcely  tenantable.  A  cottage  is  badly 
situated  on  the  cataract  of  Niagara,  or  in  the  circus 
of  Gavarnie;  it  is  awkward  to  keep  house  with 
these  fierce  wonders :  to  frequent  them  regularly 
without  being  overwhelmed,  one  must  be  a  cretin 
or  a  genius. 

The  dawn  itself  at  times  seems  to  us  immoderate : 
he  who  looks  straight  at  it,  suffers;  the  eye  at 
certain  moments  thinks  very  ill  of  the  sun.  Let 
us  not,  then,  be  surprised  at  the  complaints  made, 
at  the  incessant  protests,  at  the  fits  of  passion  and 
prudence,  at  the  poultices  applied  by  a  certain 
school  of  criticism,  at  the  chronic  ophthalmy  of 
academies  and  teaching  bodies,  at  the  precautions 
suggested  to  the  reader,  at  all  the  curtains  drawn 
and  at  all  the  shades  set  up  against  genius. 
Genius  is  intolerant  unawares,  because  it  is  genius. 
What  familiarity  is  possible  with  ^Eschylus,  with 
Ezekiel,  with  Dante? 


2  70  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

The  self  is  one's  title  to  egoism.  Now,  the  first 
thing  that  those  beings  do,  is  to  shock  the  self  of 
every  man.  Exorbitant  in  everything, — in  thoughts, 
in  images,  in  convictions,  in  emotions,  in  passion, 
in  faith, — whatever  may  be  the  side  of  yourself 
to  which  they  address  themselves,  they  disturb  it. 
They  overshoot  your  intelligence ;  they  dazzle  the 
inner  eye  of  imagination ;  they  question  and  search 
your  conscience;  they  wrench  your  deepest  sen- 
sibilities ;  they  tear  your  heart-strings  ;  they  sweep 
away  your  soul. 

The  infinite  that  is  in  them  passes  from  them, 
and  multiplies  them,  and  transfigures  them  before 
your  eyes  every  moment,  —  a  fearful  strain  upon 
the  vision !  -  With  them,  you  never  know  where 
you  are.  At  every  turn  you  encounter  the  unfore- 
seen. You  were  looking  for  men  only  :  there 
come  giants  who  cannot  enter  your  chamber.  You 
expected  only  an  Idea:  cast  down  your  eyes,  for 
they  are  the  ideal.  You  expected  only  eagles  : 
these  beings  have  six  wings,  they  are  seraphs. 
Are  they  then  beyond  Nature?  Are  they  lacking 
in  humanity? 

Certainly  not;  and  far  from  that,  and  quite  the 
reverse.  We  have  already  said,  and  we  insist  upon 
it,  Nature  and  humanity  are  in  them  more  than  in 
any  other  beings.  They  are  superhuman  men,  but 
men.  Homo  sum.  This  word  of  a  poet  sums  up 
all  poetry.  Saint  Paul  strikes  his  breast,  and  says, 
"  Peccamus."  Job  tells  you  who  he  is :  "I  am  the 
son  of  a  woman."  They  are  men.  What  troubles 
you  is  that  they  are  men  more  than  you ;  they  are 
too  much  men.  Where  you  have  but  the  part,  they 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2/1 

have  the  whole;  they  carry  in  their  vast  heart 
entire  humanity,  and  they  are  you  more  than  your- 
self; you  recognize  yourself  too  much  in  their 
work,  —  hence  your  outcry.  To  that  total  of 
Nature,  to  that  complete  humanity,  to  that  clay 
which  is  all  your  flesh,  and  which  is  at  the  same 
time  the  whole  earth,  they  add  something;  and 
this  marvellous  reflection  of  the  light  of  unknown 
suns  completes  your  terror.  They  have  vistas  of 
revelation  ;  and  suddenly,  and  without  crying 
"Beware  !  "  at  the  moment  when  you  least  expect 
it,  they  burst  the  cloud,  and  make  in  the  zenith  a 
gap  whence  falls  a  ray  lighting  up  the  terrestrial 
with  the  celestial.  It  is  quite  natural  that  people 
should  have  no  great  fancy  for  their  company,  and 
no  taste  for  neighborly  intimacy  with  them. 

Whoever  has  not  a  soul  well  attempered  by  a 
vigorous  education  prefers  to  avoid  them.  For 
colossal  books  there  must  be  athletic  readers.  To 
open  Jeremiah,  Ezekiel,  Job,  Pindar,  Lucretius, 
and  this  Alighieri,  and  this  Shakespeare,  one  must 
be  robust.  Let  it  be  owned  that  commonplace 
habits,  a  vulgar  life,  the  dead  calm  of  the  con- 
science, "good  taste"  and  "common  sense," — all 
petty  and  placid  egoism,  —  are  disturbed  by  the 
portents  of  the  sublime. 

Yet,  when  one  plunges  in  and  reads  them, 
nothing  is  more  hospitable  for  the  mind  at  certain 
hours  than  these  stern  spirits.  They  suddenly  as- 
sume a  lofty  gentleness,  as  unexpected  as  the  rest. 
They  say  to  you,  "  Come  in  !"  They  receive  you 
at  home  with  an  archangelic  fraternity.  They 
are  affectionate,  sad,  melancholy,  consoling.  You 


2/2  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

are  suddenly  at  your  ease.  You  feel  yourself 
loved  by  them ;  you  almost  imagine  yourself  per- 
sonally known  to  them.  Their  sternness  and  their 
pride  veil  a  profound  sympathy ;  if  granite  had  a 
heart,  how  deep  would  its  goodness  be !  Well, 
genius  is  granite  with  goodness.  Extreme  power 
goes  with  great  love.  They  join  you  in  your 
prayers.  Such  men  know  well  that  God  exists. 
Apply  your  ear  to  these  giants,  and  you  will  hear 
their  hearts  beat.  Would  you  believe,  love,  weep, 
beat  your  breast,  fall  upon  your  knees,  raise  your 
hands  to  heaven  with  confidence  and  serenity? 
Listen  to  these  poets :  they  will  aid  you  to  rise 
toward  a  wholesome  and  fruitful  sorrow;  they  will 
make  you  feel  the  heavenly  use  of  emotion.  Oh, 
goodness  of  the  strong!  Their  emotion,  which,  if 
they  will,  can  be  an  earthquake,  is  at  moments  so 
cordial  and  so  gentle  that  it  seems  like  the  rocking 
of  a  cradle.  They  have  just  quickened  within  you 
something  which  they  foster  tenderly.  There  is 
maternity  in  genius.  Advance  a  step ;  a  new  sur- 
prise awaits  you:  these  poets  have  a  grace  like 
that  of  Aurora  herself. 

High  mountains  have  upon  their  slopes  all 
climes,  and  the  great  poets  all  styles.  It  is  suffi- 
cient to  change  the  zone.  Go  up,  it  is  the  tem- 
pest; descend,  the  flowers  are  there.  The  inner 
fire  accommodates  itself  to  the  winter  without;  the 
glacier  makes  an  admirable  crater;  and  the  lava 
has  no  finer  outlet  than  through  the  snow.  A 
sudden  blaze  of  flame  is  not  strange  on  a  polar 
summit.  This  contact  of  the  extremes  is  a  law  in 
Nature,  in  which  the  theatrical  strokes  of  the  sub- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  273 

lime  are  exhibited  at  every  moment.  A  moun- 
tain, a  genius,  —  both  possess  an  austere  majesty. 
These  masses  evolve  a  sort  of  religious  intimida- 
tion. Dante  is  not  less  precipitous  than  Etna; 
Shakspeare's  heights  equal  the  steeps  of  Chimbo- 
razo.  The  summits  of  the  poets  are  not  less  cloud- 
piercing  than  mountain  peaks.  There  thunders 
roll;  while  in  the  valleys,  in  passes,  in  sheltered 
nooks,  at  the  bottom  of  canons,  are  rivulets, 
birds,  nests,  foliage,  enchantments,  extraordinary 
floras.  Above  the  frightful  arch  of  the  Aveyron, 
in  the  middle  of  the  Mer  de  Glace,  there  is  that 
paradise  called  "  The  Garden  "  —  have  you  seen  it? 
What  a  freak  of  Nature  !  A  hot  sun,  a  shade  tepid 
and  fresh,  a  vague  exudation  of  perfumes  on  the 
grass-plots,  an  indescribable  month  of  May  per- 
petually crouching  amid  precipices.  Nothing  can 
be  more  tender  and  more  exquisite.  Such  are  the 
poets ;  such  are  the  Alps.  These  vast,  dreadful 
heights  are  marvellous  growers  of  roses  and  violets. 
They  avail  themselves  of  the  dawn  and  of  the  dew 
better  than  all  your  meadows  and  all  your  hills, 
whose  natural  business  it  is.  The  April  of  the 
plain  is  flat  and  vulgar  compared  with  their  April, 
and  they  have,  those  immense  old  mountains,  in 
their  wildest  ravine,  their  own  charming  spring-tide 
well  known  to  the  bees. 


18 


BOOK    IV. 

CRITICISM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ALL  Shakespeare's  plays,  with  the  exception 
of  '  Macbeth  '  and  '  Romeo  and  Juliet/  — 
thirty-four  plays  out  of  thirty-six,  —  offer  to  the 
observer  one  peculiarity  which  seems  to  have  es- 
caped, up  to  this  day,  the  most  eminent  commen- 
tators and  critics ;  one  which  is  unnoticed  by  the 
Schlegels,  and  even  by  M.  Villemain  himself,  in 
his  remarkable  labors,  and  of  which  it  is  impossible 
not  to  speak.  It  is  the  double  action  which  trav- 
erses the  drama  and  reflects  it  on  a  small  scale. 
Beside  the  tempest  in  the  Atlantic  is  the  tempest 
in  the  tea-cup.  Thus,  Hamlet  makes  beneath  him- 
self a  Hamlet ;  he  kills  Polonius,  father  of  Laertes, 
—  and  there  stands  Laertes  over  against  him  ex- 
actly as  he  stands  over  against  Claudius.  There 
are  two  fathers  to  avenge.  There  might  be  two 
ghosts.  So,  in  '  King  Lear/  side  by  side  and 
simultaneously,  Lear,  driven  to  despair  by  his 
daughters  Goneril  and  Regan,  and  consoled  by 
his  daughter  Cordelia,  is  repeated  in  Gloster, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  275 

betrayed  by  his  son  Edmund  and  loved  by  his  son 
Edgar.  The  idea  bifurcated,  the  idea  echoing 
itself,  a  lesser  drama  copying  and  elbowing  the 
principal  drama,  the  action  attended  by  its  moon, 
—  a  smaller  action  like  it,  —  unity  cut  in  two ; 
surely  the  fact  is  a  strange  one.  These  double 
actions  have  been  strongly  condemned  by  the  few 
commentators  who  have  pointed  them  out.  In 
this  condemnation  we  do  not  sympathize.  Do  we 
then  approve  and  accept  as  good  these  double 
actions?  By  no  means.  We  recognize  them,  and 
that  is  all.  The  drama  of  Shakespeare  —  as  we 
said  with  all  our  force  as  far  back  as  1827,*  in 
order  to  discourage  all  imitation  —  the  drama  of 
Shakespeare  is  peculiar  to  Shakespeare;  it  is  a 
drama  inherent  in  this  poet;  it  is  his  own  essence; 
it  is  himself.  Thence  his  originalities,  which  are 
absolutely  personal ;  thence  his  idiosyncrasies,  ? 
which  exist  without  establishing  a  law.  _J 

These  double  actions  are  purely  Shakespearian. 
Neither  yEschylus  nor  Moliere  would  admit  them ; 
and  we  should  certainly  agree  with  ^Eschylus  and 
Moliere. 

These  double  actions  are,  moreover,  the  sign  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  Each  epoch  has  its  own 
mysterious  stamp.  The  centuries  have  a  signature 
which  they  affix  to  masterpieces,  and  which  it  is 
necessary  to  know  how  to  decipher  and  recognize. 
The  signature  of  the  sixteenth  century  is  not  that 
of  the  eighteenth.  The  Renascence  was  a  subtle 
time,  a  time  of  reflection.  The  spirit  of  the  six- 
teenth century  was  reflected  in  a  mirror.  Every 

1  Preface  to  '  Cromwell.' 


2/6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

idea  of  the  Renascence  has  a  double  compartment. 
Look  at  the  rood-lofts  in  the  churches.  The  Re- 
nascence, with  an  exquisite  and  fantastical  art, 
always  makes  the  Old  Testament  an  adumbration 
of  the  New.  The  double  action  is  there  in  every- 
thing. The  symbol  explains  the  personage  by 
repeating  his  gesture.  If,  in  a  low-relief,  Jehovah 
sacrifices  his  son,  he  has  for  a  neighbor,  in  the  next 
low-relief,  Abraham  sacrificing  his  son.  Jonah 
passes  three  days  in  the  whale,  and  Jesus  passes 
three  days  in  the  sepulchre ;  and  the  jaws  of  the 
monster  swallowing  Jonah  answer  to  the  mouth  of 
hell  engulfing  Jesus. 

The  carver  of  the  rood-loft  of  Fecamp,  so  stupidly 
demolished,  goes  so  far  as  to  give  for  a  counterpart 
to  St.  Joseph  —  whom?  Amphitryon. 

These  singular  parallels  constitute  one  of  the 
habits  of  the  profound  and  far-sought  art  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  Nothing  can  be  more  curious 
in  that  manner  than  the  use  which  was  made  of 
St.  Christopher.  In  the  Middle  Ages  and  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  in  paintings  and  sculptures,  St. 
Christopher  —  the  good  giant  martyred  by  Decius 
in  250,  recorded  by  the  Bollandists  and  accepted 
imperturbably  by  Baillet  —  is  always  triple,  an 
opportunity  for  the  triptych.  To  begin  with,  there 
is  a  first  Christ-bearer,  a  first  Christophorus ;  this  is 
Christopher  with  the  infant  Jesus  on  his  shoulders. 
Next,  the  Virgin  with  child  is  a  Christopher,  since 
she  carries  Christ.  Lastly,  the  cross  is  a  Chris- 
topher; it  also  carries  Christ.  This  treble  illus- 
tration of  the  idea  is  immortalized  by  Rubens 
in  the  cathedral  of  Antwerp.  The  twin  idea,  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  277 

4 

triple  idea,  —  such  is  the  stamp  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

Shakespeare,  faithful  to  the  spirit  of  his  time, 
must  needs  add  Laertes  avenging  his  father  to 
Hamlet  avenging  his  father,  and  cause  Hamlet 
to  be  pursued  by  Laertes  at  the  same  time  that 
Claudius  is  pursued  by  Hamlet;  he  must  needs 
make  the  filial  piety  of  Edgar  a  comment  on  the 
filial  piety  of  Cordelia,  and  bring  out  in  contrast, 
weighed  down  by  the  ingratitude  of  unnatural 
children,  two  wretched  fathers,  each  bereaved  of 
one  of  the  two  kinds  of  light,  —  Lear  mad,  and 
Gloster  blind. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHAT  then?  No  criticisms?  No  strictures? 
You  explain  everything?  Yes.  Genius  is  an  en- 
tity like  Nature,  and  requires,  like  Nature,  to  be 
accepted  purely  and  simply.  A  mountain  must 
be  accepted  as  such,  or  left  alone.  There  are  men 
who  would  make  a  criticism  on  the  Himalayas, 
pebble  by  pebble.  Mount  Etna  blazes  and  sput- 
ters, throws  out  its  glare,  its  wrath,  its  lava,  and  its 
ashes;  these  men  take  scales  and  weigh  these 
ashes,  pinch  by  pinch.  Quot  libras  in  monte 
summo?  Meanwhile  genius  continues  its  erup- 
tion. Everything  in  it  has  its  reason  for  existing. 
It  is  because  it  is.  Its  shadow  is  the  under-side  of 
its  light.  Its  smoke  comes  from  its  flame.  Its 
precipice  is  the  condition  of  its  height.  We  love 


2/8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

* 

this  more,  and  that  less;  but  we  remain  silent 
wherever  we  feel  God.  We  are  in  the  forest ;  the 
crossed  grain  of  the  tree  is  its  secret.  The  sap 
knows  what  it  is  doing;  the  root  understands  its 
trade.  We  take  things  as  they  are;  we  are  on 
good  terms  with  what  is  excellent,  tender,  or  mag- 
nificent; we  acquiesce  in  masterpieces;  we  do  not 
make  use  of  one  to  find  fault  with  the  other;  we 
do  not  insist  that  Phidias  should  sculpture  cathe- 
drals, nor  that  Pinaigrier  should  glaze  temples. 
The  temple  is  harmony,  the  cathedral  is  mystery; 
they  are  two  different  models  of  the  sublime :  we 
do  not  claim  for  the  minster  the  perfection  of  the 
Parthenon,  nor  for  the  Parthenon  the  grandeur  of 
the  minster. 

We  are  so  far  whimsical  as  to  be  satisfied  if  a 
thing  is  beautiful.  We  do  not  reproach  for  its 
sting  the  insect  that  gives  us  honey.  We  renounce 
our  right  to  criticise  the  feet  of  the  peacock,  the 
cry  of  the  swan,  the  plumage  of  the  nightingale, 
the  larva  of  the  butterfly,  the  thorn  of  the  rose, 
the  odor  of  the  lion,  the  hide  of  the  elephant,  the 
prattle  of  the  cascade,  the  pips  of  the  orange, 
the  immobility  of  the  Milky  Way,  the  saltness  of 
the  ocean,  the  spots  on  the  sun,  the  nakedness 
of  Noah. 

The  quandoque  bonus  dormitat  is  permitted  to 
Horace.  We  raise  no  objection.  What  is  certain 
is  that  Homer  would  not  say  this  of  Horace,  he 
would  not  take  the  trouble.  But  that  eagle  would 
find  this  chattering  humming-bird  charming  enough. 
I  grant  it  is  pleasant  to  a  man  to  feel  himself  supe- 
rior, and  to  say,  "  Homer  is  puerile,  Dante  is  child- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  279 

ish."  The  smile  accompanying  such  a  remark  is 
rather  becoming.  Why  not  crush  these  poor  ge- 
niuses a  little?  To  be  the  Abbe  Trublet,  and  to 
say,  "  Milton  is  a  schoolboy,"  is  agreeable.  How 
witty  is  the  man  who  finds  that  Shakespeare  has  no 
wit!  That  man  is  La  Harpe,  Delandine,  Auger; 
he  is,  was,  or  shall  be,  an  Academician.  "  All 
these  great  men  are  full  of  extravagance,  bad 
taste,  and  childishness."  What  a  fine  decision  to 
render  !  These  manners  tickle  their  possessors 
voluptuously;  and,  in  reality,  when  they  have  said, 
"  This  giant  is  small,"  they  can  fancy  that  they  are 
great.  Every  man  has  his  own  way.  As  for  my- 
self, the  writer  of  these  lines,  I  admire  everything, 
like  a  fool. 

That  is  why  I  have  written  this  book. 

To  admire,  —  to  be  an  enthusiast, —  it  has  struck 
me  that  it  was  well  to  give,  in  our  century,  this 
example  of  folly. 


CHAPTER  III. 

LOOK,  therefore,  for  no  criticism.  I  admire 
^Eschylus,  I  admire  Juvenal,  I  admire  Dante  in  the 
mass,  in  the  lump,  all.  I  do  not  cavil  at  those 
great  benefactors.  What  you  characterize  as  a 
fault,  I  call  accent.  I  accept,  and  give  thanks.  The 
marvels  of  the  human  mind  being  my  inheritance, 
I  claim  no  exemption  from  the  liabilities  of  the 
succession.  Pegasus  being  given  to  me,  I  do  not 


28O  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

look  the  gift-horse  in  the  mouth.  A  masterpiece 
offers  me  its  hospitality:  I  approach  it  hat  in 
hand,  and  I  admire  the  countenance  of  my  host. 
Gilles  Shakespeare, —  be  it  so.  I  admire  Shake- 
speare, and  I  admire  Gilles.  Falstaff  is  proposed 
to  me,  —  I  accept  him,  and  I  admire  the  "  Empty 
the  jorden."  I  admire  the  senseless  cry,  "  A  rat !  " 
I  admire  the  quips  of  Hamlet;  I  admire  the  whole- 
sale murders  of  Macbeth;  I  admire  the  witches, 
"that  ridiculous  spectacle;"  I  admire  "the  but- 
tock of  the  night;  "  I  admire  the  eye  plucked  from 
Gloucester.  I  have  no  more  intelligence  than  that 
comes  to. 

Having  recently  had  the  honor  to  be  called 
"  silly"  by  several  distinguished  writers  and  critics, 
and  even  by  my  illustrious  friend  M.  de  Lamar- 
tine,1  I  am  determined  to  justify  the  epithet. 

We  close  with  a  final  observation  of  detail  which 
we  have  specially  to  make  regarding  Shakespeare. 

Orestes,  that  fatal  senior  of  Hamlet,  is  not,  as 
we  have  said,  the  sole  link  between  yEschylus  and 
Shakespeare ;  we  have  noted  a  relation,  less  easily 
perceptible,  between  Prometheus  and  Hamlet. 
The  mysterious  intimacy  between  the  two  poets 
appears,  with  reference  to  this  same  Prometheus, 
still  more  strangely  striking  in  a  particular  which, 
up  to  this  time,  has  escaped  the  notice  of  observers 
and  critics.  Prometheus  is  the  grandsire  of  Mab. 

Let  us  prove  it. 

Prometheus,  like  all  personages  who  have  be- 

1  "  The  whole  biography,  sometimes  rather  puerile,  even  rather 
silly,  of  Bishop  Myriel." —  LAMARTINE:  Course  in  Literature  (Dis- 
course lxxxiv.},p.  385. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  28 1 

come  legendary,  —  like  Solomon,  like  Caesar,  like 
Mahomet,  like  Charlemagne,  like  the  Cid,  like 
Joan  of  Arc,  like  Napoleon,  —  has  a  double  con- 
tinuation, the  one  in  history,  the  other  in  fable. 
Now,  the  continuation  of  Prometheus  in  the  fable 
is  this :  — 

Prometheus,  creator  of  men,  is  also  creator  of 
spirits.  He  is  father  of  a  dynasty  of  Divs,  whose 
filiation  the  old  metrical  romances  have  preserved : 
Elf,  that  is  to  say,  the  Rapid,  son  of  Prometheus ; 
then  Elfin,  king  of  India;  then  Elfinan,  founder 
of  Cleopolis,  town  of  the  fairies;  then  Elfilin, 
builder  of  the  golden  wall ;  then  Elfinell,  winner 
of  the  battle  of  the  demons;  then  Elfant,  who 
built  Panthea  all  in  crystal ;  then  Elfar,  who  killed 
Bicephalus  and  Tricephalus;  then  Elfinor,  the 
magian,  a  kind  of  Salmoneus,  who  built  over  the 
sea  a  bridge  of  copper,  sounding  like  thunder, 
"  non  imitabile  fulmen  sere  et  cornipedum  pulsu 
simularet  equorum ;  "  then  seven  hundred  princes; 
then  Elficleos  the  Sage ;  then  Elferon  the  Beauti- 
ful; then  Oberon;  then  Mab.  Wonderful  fable, 
which,  with  a  profound  meaning,  unites  the  si- 
dereal and  the  microscopic,  the  infinitely  great  and 
the  infinitely  small. 

And  it  is  thus  that  the  animalcule  of  Shake- 
speare is  connected  with  the  giant  of  ^Eschylus. 

The  fairy,  —  drawn  athwart  men's  noses  as  they 
lie  asleep,  in  her  chariot  covered  with  the  wings  of 
grasshoppers,  by  eight  little  atomies  harnessed 
with  moonbeams  and  whipped  with  a  lash  of  film, 
— the  fairy  atom  has  for  ancestor  the  huge  Titan, 
robber  of  stars,  nailed  on  the  Caucasus,  having 


282  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

one  hand  on  the  Caspian  Gates,  the  other  on  the 
Gates  of  Ararat,  one  heel  on  the  source  of  the 
Phasis,  the  other  on  the  Validus-Murus,  closing 
the  passage  between  the  mountain  and  the  sea,  — 
a  colossus  whose  vast  profile  of  shadow  was  pro- 
jected by  the  sun,  according  to  its  rising  or  setting, 
now  over  Europe  as  far  as  Corinth,  now  over  Asia 
as  far  as  Bangalore. 

Nevertheless,  Mab  —  who  is  also  called  Tanaquil 
—  has  all  the  wavering  inconsistency  of  a  dream. 
Under  the  name  of  Tanaquil  she  is  the  wife  of  the 
elder  Tarquin,  and  she  spins  for  young  Servius 
Tullius  the  first  tunic  worn  by  a  young  Roman 
after  leaving  off  the  praetexta ;  Oberon,  who  turns 
out  to  be  Numa,  is  her  uncle.  In  '  Huon  de 
Bordeaux '  she  is  called  Gloriande,  and  has  for 
a  lover  Julius  Caesar,  and  Oberon  is  her  son;  in 
Spenser  she  is  called  Gloriana,  and  Oberon  is 
her  father ;  in  Shakespeare  she  is  called  Titania, 
and  Oberon  is  her  husband.  This  name,  Titania, 
connects  Mab  with  the  Titan,  and  Shakespeare 
with  ./Eschylus. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  eminent  man  of  our  day,  a  celebrated  his- 
torian, a  powerful  orator,  an  earlier  translator  of 
Shakespeare,  is  in  our  opinion  mistaken  when  he 
regrets,  or  appears  to  regret,  the  slight  influence 
of  Shakespeare  upon  the  theatre  of  the  nineteenth 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  283 

century.  We  cannot  share  that  regret.  An  in- 
fluence of  any  sort,  even  that  of  Shakespeare, 
could  but  mar  the  originality  of  the  literary  move- 
ment of  our  epoch.  "  Xhe  system  of  Shakespeare," 
says  this  honorable  and  grave  writer,  with  refer- 
ence to  that  movement,  "  may  furnish,  it  seems  to 
me,  the  plans  after  which  genius  must  henceforth 
work."  We  have  never  been  of  that  opinion,  and 
we  said  so,  in  anticipation,  forty  years  ago.1  For 
us,  Shakespeare  is  a  genius,  and  not  a  system.  On 
this  point  we  have  already  explained  our  views, 
and  we  mean  soon  to  explain  them  at  greater 
length ;  but  let  us  say  now  that  what  Shakespeare 
has  done,  is  done  once  for  all.  There  is  no  revert- 
ing to  it.  Admire  or  criticise,  but  do  not  recast. 
It  is  finished. 

A  distinguished  critic,  recently  deceased,  M. 
Chaudesaigues,  lays  stress  on  this  reproach. 
"  Shakespeare,"  says  he,  "  has  been  revived  with- 
out being  followed.  The  romantic  school  has  not 
imitated  Shakespeare;  that  is  its  fault."  That 
is  its  merit.  It  is  blamed  for  this;  we  praise  it. 
The  contemporary  theatre,  such  as  it  is,  is  itself. 
The  contemporary  theatre  has  for  device,  "  Sum, 
non  sequor."  It  belongs  to  no  "  system."  It  has 
its  own  law,  and  it  fulfils  this  law ;  it  has  its  own 
life,  and  it  lives  this  life. 

The  drama  of  Shakespeare  expresses  man  at  a 
given  moment.  Man  passes  away;  this  drama 
remains,  having  as  its  eternal  background  life, 
the  heart,  the  world,  and  as  its  foreground  the 
sixteenth  century.  This  drama  can  neither  be 

1  Preface  to  '  Cromwell.' 


284  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

continued  nor  begun  anew.     Another  age,  another 
art. 

The  theatre  of  our  day  has  no  more  followed 
Shakespeare  than  it  has  followed  ^Eschylus !  And 
without  enumerating  all  the  other  reasons  that  we 
shall  note  farther  on,  how  perplexed  would  he  be 
who  wished  to  imitate  and  copy,  in  making  a 
choice  between  these  two  poets !  ^Eschylus  and 
Shakespeare  seem  made  to  prove  that  contraries 
may  be  admirable.  The  point  of  departure  of 
the  one  is  absolutely  opposite  to  the  point  of  de- 
parture of  the  other.  ^Eschylus  is  concentration, 
Shakespeare  is  diffusion.  One  deserves  applause 
because  he  is  condensed,  and  the  other  because  he 
is  dispersed ;  to  ^schylus  unity,  to  Shakespeare 
ubiquity.  Between  them  they  divide  God.  And 
as  such  intelligences  are  always  complete,  one 
feels  in  the  unit  drama  of  ^Eschylus  the  free  agi- 
tation of  passion,  and  in  the  diffusive  drama  of 
Shakespeare  the  convergence  of  all  the  rays  of 
life.  The  one  starts  from  unity  and  reaches  the 
multiple;  the  other  starts  from  the  multiple  and 
arrives  at  unity. 

The  evidence  of  this  is  striking,  especially  when 
we  compare  '  Hamlet*  with  'Orestes.'  Extra- 
ordinary double  page,  obverse  and  reverse  of  the 
same  idea,  which  seems  written  expressly  to  prove 
how  true  it  is  that  two  different  geniuses,  making 
the  same  thing,  will  make  two  different  things. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  theatre  of  our  day  has, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  traced  out  its  own  way  be- 
tween Greek  unity  and  Shakespearian  ubiquity. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  285 


CHAPTER  V. 

LET  us  set  aside,  for  the  present,  the  question  of 
contemporary  art,  and  take  up  again  the  general 
question. 

Imitation  is  always  barren  and  bad. 

As  for  Shakespeare,  —  since  Shakespeare  is  the 
poet  who  claims  our  attention  now,  —  he  is  in  the 
highest  degree  a  genius  human  and  general ;  but, 
like  every  true  genius,  he  is  at  the  same  time  an 
idiosyncratic  and  a  personal  mind.  Axiom:  the 
poet  starts  from  his  own  inner  self  to  come  to  us. 
It  is  that  which  makes  the  poet  inimitable. 

Examine  Shakespeare,  fathom  him,  and  see  how 
determined  he  is  to  be  himself.  Expect  from  him 
no  concession.  He  is  certainly  not  selfish,  but  what 
he  does  he  does  of  deliberate  choice.  He  commands 
his  art,  —  within  the  limits,  of  course,  of  his  proper 
work.  For  neither  the  art  of  ^Eschylus,  nor  the  art 
of  Aristophanes,  nor  the  art  of  Plautus,  nor  the 
art  of  Macchiavelli,  nor  the  art  of  Calderon,  nor 
the  art  of  Moliere,  nor  the  art  of  Beaumarchais,  nor 
any  of  the  forms  of  art,  deriving  life  each  of  them 
from  the  special  life  of  a  man  of  genius,  would  obey 
the  orders  given  by  Shakespeare.  Art  thus  under- 
stood is  vast  equality  and  profound  liberty;  the 
region  of  equals  is  also  the  region  of  the  free. 

It  is  an  element  of  Shakespeare's  grandeur  that 
he  cannot  be  taken  as  a  model.  In  order  to  realize 
his  idiosyncrasy,  open  one  of  his  plays, — no  matter 


286  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

which,  —  it    is    always,   foremost    and    above   all, 
Shakespeare. 

What  more  personal  than  *  Troilus  and  Cres- 
sida' ?  A  comic  Troy!  Here  is  'Much  Ado 
about  Nothing/  —  a  tragedy  which  ends  with  a 
burst  of  laughter.  Here  is  '  The  Winter's  Tale  '  — 
a  pastoral  drama.  Shakespeare  is  at  home  in  his 
work.  Would  you  see  a  despotism?  —  consider 
his  imagination.  What  arbitrary  determination  to 
dream !  What  despotic  resolution  in  his  dizzy 
flight !  What  absoluteness  in  his  indecision  and 
wavering !  The  dream  fills  some  of  his  plays  to 
such  a  degree  that  man  changes  his  nature,  and 
becomes  a  cloud  rather  than  a  man.  Angelo  in 
*  Measure  for  Measure  '  is  a  misty  tyrant.  He  be- 
comes disintegrated,  and  wears  away.  Leontes  in 
'  The  Winter's  Tale  '  is  an  Othello  who  fades  out. 
In  '  Cymbeline '  one  thinks  that  lachimo  will  be- 
come an  lago;  but  he  dissolves.  The  dream  is 
there,  —  everywhere.  Watch  Manilius,  Posthumus, 
Hermione,  Perdita,  passing  by.  In  '  The  Tempest* 
the  Duke  of  Milan  has  "  a  brave  son,"  who  is  like 
a  dream  within  a  dream.  Ferdinand  alone  speaks 
of  him,  and  no  one  but  Ferdinand  seems  to  have 
seen  him.  A  brute  becomes  reasonable :  witness 
the  constable  Elbow  in  *  Measure  for  Measure.' 
An  idiot  comes  suddenly  by  his  wits :  witness 
Cloten  in  '  Cymbeline.'  A  king  of  Sicily  is  jealous 
of  a  king  of  Bohemia.  Bohemia  has  a  sea-coast; 
the  shepherds  pick  up  children  there.  Theseus, 
a  duke,  espouses  Hippolyta,  the  Amazon.  Oberon 
comes  in  also.  For  here  it  is  Shakespeare's  will  to 
dream ;  elsewhere  he  thinks. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  287 

We  say  more :  where  he  dreams,  he  still  thinks ; 
with  a  profundity  different,  but  not  inferior. 

Let  men  of  genius  remain  in  peace  in  their  ori- 
ginality. There  is  something  wild  in  these  mysteri- 
ous civilizers.  Even  in  their  comedy,  even  in  their 
buffoonery,  even  in  their  laughter,  even  in  their 
smile,  there  is  the  unknown.  In  them  is  felt  the 
sacred  dread  that  belongs  to  art,  and  the  all-power- 
ful terror  of  the  imaginary  mingled  with  the  real. 
Each  of  them  is  in  his  cavern,  alone.  They  hear 
each  other  from  afar,  but  never  copy.  We  are  not 
aware  that  the  hippopotamus  imitates  the  roar  of 
the  elephant. 

Lions  do  not  ape  each  other. 

Diderot  does  not  recast  Bayle;  Beaumarchais 
does  not  copy  Plautus,  and  has  no  need  of  Davus 
to  create  Figaro;  Piranesi  is  not  inspired  by 
Daedalus;  Isaiah  does  not  begin  again  the  work 
of  Moses. 

One  day,  at  St.  Helena,  M.  de  las  Casas  said, 
"  Sire,  had  I  been  like  you,  master  of  Prussia,  I 
should  have  taken  the  sword  of  Frederick  the  Great 
from  the  tomb  at  Potsdam,  and  I  should  have  worn 
it."  "Fool,"  replied  Napoleon,  "I  had  my  own." 

Shakespeare's  work  is  absolute,  sovereign,  im- 
perious, eminently  solitary,  unneighborly,  sublime 
in  radiance,  absurd  in  reflection,  and  must  remain 
without  a  copy. 

To  imitate  Shakespeare  would  be  as  insane  as  to 
imitate  Racine  would  be  stupid. 


288  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LET  us  agree,  by  the  way,  respecting  a  designa- 
tion much  used  on  every  hand,  —  "  profanum  vul- 
gus,"  a  word  of  a  poet  emphasized  by  pedants. 
This  "  profanum  vulgus  "  seems  to  be  everybody's 
missile.  Let  us  fix  the  meaning  of  this  word. 
What  is  the  "vulgar  herd"?  The  school  says, 
"It  is  the  people."  And  we,  for  our  part,  say,  "  It 
is  the  school." 

But  let  us  first  define  this  expression,  "  the 
school."  When  we  say  "  the  school,"  what  must 
be  understood?  Let  us  explain.  The  school  is 
the  resultant  of  pedantry ;  the  school  is  the  liter- 
ary excrescence  of  the  budget;  the  school  is  in- 
tellectual mandarinship  governing  in  the  various 
authorized  and  official  teachings,  either  of  the 
press  or  of  the  state,  from  the  theatrical  feuilleton 
of  the  prefecture  to  the  biographies  and  encyclo- 
paedias duly  examined  and  stamped  and  hawked 
about,  and  made  sometimes,  by  way  of  refinement, 
by  republicans  agreeable  to  the  police;  the  school 
is  the  classic  and  scholastic  orthodoxy,  with  its 
unbroken  girdle  of  walls,  Homeric  and  Virgilian 
antiquity  traded  upon  by  official  and  licensed  lit- 
erati, —  a  sort  of  China  calling  itself  Greece ;  the 
school  is,  summed  up  in  one  concretion  which 
forms  part  of  public  order,  all  the  knowledge  of 
pedagogues,  all  the  history  of  historiographers, 
all  the  poetry  of  laureates,  all  the  philosophy  of 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  289 

sophists,  all  the  criticism  of  pedants,  all  the  ferules 
of  the  teaching  friars,  all  the  religion  of  bigots,  all 
the  modesty  of  prudes,  all  the  metaphysics  of  par- 
tisans, all  the  justice  of  placemen,  all  the  old  age 
of  dapper  young  men  bereft  of  their  virility,  all 
the  flattery  of  courtiers,  all  the  diatribes  of  censer- 
bearers,  all  the  independence  of  flunkeys,  all  the 
certitudes  of  short  sights  and  of  base  souls.  The 
school  hates  Shakespeare.  It  detects  him  in  the 
very  act  of  mingling  with  the  people,  going  to  and 
fro  in  public  thoroughfares,  "  trivial,"  having  a 
word  for  every  man,  speaking  the  language  of 
the  people,  uttering  the  human  cry  like  any  other, 
accepted  by  those  whom  he  accepts,  applauded 
by  hands  black  with  tar,  cheered  by  the  hoarse 
throats  of  all  those  who  come  from  labor  and  from 
weariness.  The  drama  of  Shakespeare  is  for  the 
people;  the  school  is  indignant,  and  says,  "  Odi 
profanum  vulgus."  There  is  demagogy  in  this 
poetry  roaming  at  large ;  the  author  of  '  Hamlet ' 
"  panders  to  the  mob." 

Be  it  so.     The  poet  "  panders  to  the  mob." 

If  anything  is  great,  it  is  that. 

In  the  foreground  everywhere,  in  full  light, 
amidst  the  flourish  of  trumpets,  are  the  powerful 
men,  followed  by  the  gilded  men.  The  poet  does 
not  see  them,  or,  if  he  does,  he  disdains  them. 
He  lifts  his  eyes  and  looks  at  God ;  then  he  drops 
his  eyes  and  looks  at  the  people.  There  in  the 
depths  of  shadow,  wellnigh  invisible  by  reason  of 
its  submersion  in  darkness,  is  that  fatal  crowd,  that 
vast  and  mournful  heap  of  suffering,  that  venerable 
populace  of  the  tattered  and  of  the  ignorant,  — 

19 


290  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

a  chaos  of  souls.  That  crowd  of  heads  undulates 
obscurely  like  the  waves  of  a  nocturnal  sea.  From 
time  to  time  there  pass  over  that  surface,  like 
squalls  over  the  water,  catastrophes,  —  a  war,  a 
pestilence,  a  royal  favorite,  a  famine.  This  causes 
a  tremor  of  but  brief  duration,  the  deeps  of  sor- 
row being  calm,  like  the  deeps  of  the  sea.  Despair 
leaves  in  the  soul  a  dreadful  weight,  as  of  lead. 
The  last  word  of  the  abyss  is  stupor.  This  is  the 
night.  Such  is,  beneath  the  mournful  glooms 
amid  which  all  is  indistinct,  the  sombre  sea  of  the 
poor. 

These  burdened  ones  are  silent  ;  they  know 
nothing,  they  can  do  nothing,  they  think  nothing : 
they  simply  endure.  Plectuntur  Achivi.  They 
are  hungry  and  cold.  Their  indelicate  flesh  ap- 
pears through  their  tatters.  Who  makes  those 
tatters?  The  purple.  The  nakedness  of  virgins 
comes  from  the  nudity  of  odalisques.  From  the 
twisted  rags  of  the  daughters  of  the  people  fall 
pearls  for  the  Fontanges  and  the  Chateauroux.  It 
is  famine  that  gilds  Versailles.  The  whole  of  this 
living  and  dying  shadow  moves ;  these  spectral 
forms  are  in  the  pangs  of  death;  the  mother's 
breast  is  dry,  the  father  has  no  work,  the  brain  has 
no  light.  If  there  is  a  book  in  that  destitution  it 
resembles  the  pitcher,  so  insipid  or  corrupt  is 
what  it  offers  to  the  thirst  of  the  mind.  Mournful 
households ! 

The  group  of  the  little  ones  is  wan.  This  whole 
mass  expires  and  creeps,  not  having  even  the 
power  to  love;  and  perhaps  unknown  to  them, 
while  they  bow  and  submit,  from  all  that  vast 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2QI 

unconsciousness  in  which  Right  dwells,  from  the 
inarticulate  murmur  of  those  wretched  breaths 
mingled  together  proceeds  an  indescribable,  con- 
fused voice,  a  mysterious  fog  of  expression,  suc- 
ceeding, syllable  by  syllable  in  the  darkness,  in 
uttering  wonderful  words  :  Future,  Humanity, 
Liberty,  Equality,  Progress.  And  the  poet  lis- 
tens, and  he  hears;  and  he  looks,  and  he  sees; 
and  he  bends  lower  and  lower,  and  he  weeps ;  and 
then,  growing  with  a  strange  growth,  drawing  from 
all  that  darkness  his  own  transfiguration,  he  stands 
erect,  terrible  and  tender,  above  all  these  wretched 
ones  —  those  of  high  place  as  well  as  those  of  low 
—  with  flaming  eyes. 

And  with  a  loud  voice  he  demands  a  reckoning. 
And  he  says,  Here  is  the  effect !  And  he  says, 
Here  is  the  cause !  Light  is  the  remedy.  Eru- 
dimini.  He  is  like  a  great  vase  full  of  humanity 
shaken  by  the  hand  within  the  cloud,  from  which 
should  fall  to  earth  great  drops,  —  fire  for  the 
oppressors,  dew  for  the  oppressed.  Ah  !  you  deem 
that  an  evil?  Well,  we,  for  our  part,  approve  it. 
It  seems  to  us  right  that  some  one  should  speak 
when  all  are  suffering.  The  ignorant  who  enjoy 
and  the  ignorant  who  suffer  have  equal  need  of 
instruction.  The  law  of  fraternity  is  derived  from 
the  law  of  labor.  The  practice  of  killing  one 
another  has  had  its  day;  the  hour  has  come  for 
loving  one  another.  It  is  to  promulgate  these 
truths  that  the  poet  is  good.  For  that,  he  must 
be  of  the  people;  for  that,  he  must  be  of  the 
populace:  that  is  to  say,  the  poet,  as  he  leads  in 
progress,  should  not  draw  back  before  the  elbow- 


292  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

ing  of  facts,  however  ugly  the  facts  may  be.  The 
actual  distance  between  the  real  and  the  ideal 
cannot  otherwise  be  measured.  Besides,  to  drag 
the  ball  and  chain  a  little  completes  a  Vincent  de 
Paul.  To  steel  themselves,  therefore,  to  promis- 
cuous contact  with  trivial  things,  to  the  popular 
metaphor,  to  the  great  life  in  common  with  those 
exiles  from  joy  who  are  called  the  poor,  —  such  is 
the  first  duty  of  poets.  It  is  useful,  it  is  necessary, 
that  the  breath  of  the  people  should  traverse  these 
all-powerful  souls.  The  people  have  something  to 
say  to  them.  It  is  good  that  there  should  be  in 
Euripides  a  flavor  of  the  herb-dealers  of  Athens, 
and  in  Shakespeare  of  the  sailors  of  London. 

Sacrifice  to  "the  mob,"  O  poet!  Sacrifice  to 
that  unfortunate,  disinherited,  vanquished,  vaga- 
bond, shoeless,  famished,  repudiated,  despairing 
mob ;  sacrifice  to  it,  if  it  must  be  and  when  it  must 
be,  thy  repose,  thy  fortune,  thy  joy,  thy  country, 
thy  liberty,  thy  life.  The  mob  is  the  human  race 
in  misery.  The  mob  is  the  mournful  beginning  of 
the  people.  The  mob  is  the  great  victim  of  dark- 
ness. Sacrifice  to  it !  Sacrifice  thyself !  Let  thy- 
self be  hunted,  let  thyself  be  exiled  like  Voltaire 
to  Ferney,  like  D'Aubigne  to  Geneva,  like  Dante 
to  Verona,  like  Juvenal  to  Syene,  like  Tacitus  to 
Methymna,  like  yEschylus  to  Gela,  like  John  to 
Patmos,  like  Elijah  to  Horeb,  like  Thucydides 
to  Thrace,  like  Isaiah  to  Ezion-geber!  Sacrifice 
to  the  mob.  Sacrifice  to  it  thy  gold,  and  thy  blood 
which  is  more  than  thy  gold,  and  thy  thought 
which  is  more  than  thy  blood,  and  thy  love  which 
is  more  than  thy  thought;  sacrifice  to  it  every- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  293 

thing  except  justice.  Receive  its  complaint; 
listen  to  it  touching  its  faults  and  touching  the 
faults  of  others ;  hear  its  confession  and  its  accu- 
sation. Give  it  thy  ear,  thy  hand,  thy  arm,  thy 
heart.  Do  everything  for  it,  excepting  evil.  Alas  ! 
it  suffers  so  much,  and  it  knows  nothing.  Correct 
it,  warn  it,  instruct  it,  guide  it,  train  it.  Put  it  to 
the  school  of  honesty.  Make  it  spell  truth,  show 
it  the  alphabet  of  reason,  teach  it  to  read  virtue, 
probity,  generosity,  mercy.  Hold  thy  book  wide 
open.  Be  there,  attentive,  vigilant,  kind,  faithful, 
humble.  Light  up  the  brain,  inflame  the  mind, 
extinguish  selfishness;  and  thyself  give  the  ex- 
ample. The  poor  are  privation ;  be  thou  abnega- 
tion. Teach  !  irradiate  !  they  need  thee ;  thou  art 
their  great  thirst.  To  learn  is  the  first  step;  to 
live  is  but  the  second.  Be  at  their  command : 
dost  thou  hear?  Be  ever  there  in  the  form  of 
light!  For  it  is  beautiful  on  this  sombre  earth, 
during  this  dark  life,  brief  passage  to  something  be- 
yond, —  it  is  beautiful  that  Force  should  have  Right 
for  a  master,  that  Progress  should  have  Courage  as 
a  leader,  that  Intelligence  should  have  Honor  as  a 
sovereign,  that  Conscience  should  have  Duty  as 
a  despot,  that  Civilization  should  have  Liberty  as 
a  queen,  and  that  the  servant  of  Ignorance  should 
be  the  Light. 


BOOK   V. 

THE   MINDS   AND  THE   MASSES. 


CHAPTER   I. 

MEMORABLE  things  have  been  done  during 
the  last  eighty  years.  The  pavement  is 
cluttered  with  the  rubbish  of  a  vast  demolition. 

What  is  done  is  but  little  compared  with  what 
remains  to  be  done. 

To  destroy,  is  mere  task-work ;  the  work  of  the 
artist  is  to  build.  Progress  demolishes  with  the 
left  hand ;  it  is  with  the  right  hand  that  it  builds. 

The  left  hand  of  Progress  is  called  Force;  the 
right  hand  is  called  Mind. 

A  great  deal  of  useful  destruction  has,  up  to  this 
hour,  been  accomplished ;  all  the  old  cumbersome 
civilization  is,  thanks  to  our  fathers,  cleared  away. 
It  is  well;  it  is  finished,  it  is  thrown  down,  it  is 
on  the  ground.  Up,  now,  O  intelligences !  gird 
yourselves  for  work,  for  travail,  for  fatigue,  for 
duty ;  it  becomes  necessary  to  construct. 

Here  are  three  questions,  — 

To  construct  what? 

To  construct  where  ? 

To  construct  how? 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  295 

We  reply,  — 

To  construct  the  people. 

To  construct  it  according  to  the  laws  of  progress. 

To  construct  it  by  means  of  light. 


CHAPTER  II. 

To  work  for  the  people,  —  this  is  the  great  and 
urgent  need. 

It  is  important,  at  the  present  time,  to  bear  in 
mind  that  the  human  soul  has  still  greater  need  of 
the  ideal  than  of  the  real. 

It  is  by  the  real  that  we  exist ;  it  is  by  the  ideal 
that  we  live.  Would  you  realize  the  difference? 
Animals  exist,  man  lives.1 

To  live,  is  to  understand.  To  live,  is  to  smile 
at  the  present ;  it  is  to  be  able  to  see  over  the 
wall  of  the  future.  To  live,  is  to  have  in  one's  self 
a  balance,  and  to  weigh  in  it  good  and  evil.  To 
live,  is  to  have  justice,  truth,  reason,  devotion, 
probity,  sincerity,  common-sense,  right,  and  duty 
welded  to  the  heart.  To  live,  is  to  know  what  one 
is  worth,  what  one  can  do  and  should  do.  Life  is 
conscience.  Cato  would  not  rise  before  Ptolemy. 
Cato  really  lived. 

Literature  secretes  civilization,  poetry  secretes 
the  ideal.  That  is  why  literature  is  one  of  the 

1  Perhaps  it  should  be  noted  that,  in  the  original,  existence  is 
made  the  higher,  more  absolute  mode  of  being ;  e.  g.,  "  Les  ani- 
maux  vivent,  Phomme  existe."  —  TR. 


296  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

wants  of  societies ;  that  is  why  poetry  is  a  hunger 
of  the  soul. 

That  is  why  poets  are  the  first  instructors  of  the 
people. 

That  is  why  Shakespeare  must  be  translated  in 
France. 

That  is  why  Moliere  must  be  translated  in 
England. 

That  is  why  comments  must  be  made  on  them. 

That  is  why  there  must  be  a  vast  public  literary 
domain. 

That  is  why  all  the  poets,  all  the  philosophers, 
all  the  thinkers,  all  the  producers  of  nobility  of 
soul  must  be  translated,  commented  on,  published, 
printed,  reprinted,  stereotyped,  distributed,  hawked 
about,  explained,  recited,  spread  abroad,  given  to 
all,  given  cheaply,  given  at  cost  price,  given  for 
nothing. 

Poetry  evolves  heroism.  M.  Royer-Collard,  that 
original  and  ironical  friend  of  routine,  was,  taken 
for  all  in  all,  a  wise  and  noble  spirit.  Some  one 
we  know  heard  him  say  one  day,  "  Spartacus  is 
a  poet'* 

That  dreadful  and  consoling  Ezekiel,  the  tragic 
revealer  of  progress,  has  all  kinds  of  singular  pas- 
sages full  of  a  profound  meaning :  "  The  voice 
said  to  me,  Fill  thine  hand  with  coals  of  fire  from 
between  the  cherubim,  and  scatter  them  over  the 
city."  And  elsewhere:  "  The  spirit  having  gone 
into  them,  whithersoever  the  spirit  was  to  go  they 
went."  And  again :  "  Behold,  a  hand  was  sent 
unto  me;  and  lo,  a  roll  of  a  book  was  therein. 
The  voice  said  unto  me :  Eat  this  roll.  Then  did 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  2 97 

I  eat  it;  and  it  was  in  my  mouth  as  honey  for 
sweetness." l  To  eat  the  book  is  a  strange  and 
striking  image,  embodying  the  whole  formula  of 
perfectibility,  which  is  made  up  of  knowledge 
above,  and  of  instruction  below. 

We  have  just  said  :  "  Literature  secretes  civiliza- 
tion." Do  you  doubt  it?  Open  the  first  statistics 
you  come  across. 

Here  is  one  fact  which  we  find  under  our  hand : 
Toulon  Penitentiary,  1862.  Three  thousand  and 
ten  prisoners.  Of  these  three  thousand  and  ten 
convicts,  forty  know  a  little  more  than  to  read  and 
write,  two  hundred  and  eighty-seven  know  how  to 
read  and  write,. nine  hundred  and  four  read  badly 
and  write  badly,  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy- 
nine  can  neither  read  nor  write.  In  this  wretched 
crowd,  all  the  merely  mechanical  trades  are  repre- 
sented by  numbers  decreasing  as  you  rise  toward 
the  enlightened  professions;  and  you  arrive  at 
this  final  result,  —  goldsmiths  and  jewellers  in  the 
prison,  four;  ecclesiastics,  three;  attorneys,  two ; 
actors,  one;  musicians,  one;  men  of  letters,  not 
one. 

The  transformation  of  the  crowd  into  the  people, 
—  profound  task !  It  is  to  this  labor  that  the  men 
called  Socialists  have  devoted  themselves  during 
the  last  forty  years.  The  author  of  this  book, 
however  insignificant  he  may  be,  is  one  of  the  oldest 
in  this  labor.  '  The  Last  Day  of  a  Condemned  Pris- 
oner' dates  from  1828,  and  'Claude  Gueux '  from 
1834.  If  he  claims  his  place  among  these  philoso- 

1  In  this  passage,  as  elsewhere,  the  quotations  appear  to  be 
made  from  memory.  —  TR. 


2Q8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

phers,  it  is  because  it  is  a  place  of  persecution.  A 
certain  hatred  of  Socialism,  very  blind,  but  very 
general,  has  raged  for  fifteen  or  sixteen  years,  and 
is  still  raging  most  bitterly  among  the  influential 
classes  (classes,  then,  are  still  in  existence?).  Let  it 
not  be  forgotten  that  true  Socialism  has  for  its  end 
the  elevation  of  the  masses  to  the  civic  dignity,  and 
that,  therefore,  its  principal  care  is  for  moral  and 
intellectual  cultivation. 

The  first  hunger  is  ignorance ;  Socialism  wishes, 
then,  above  all,  to  instruct.  That  does  not  hinder 
Socialism  from  being  calumniated,  and  Socialists 
from  being  denounced.  To  most  of  the  infuriated 
tremblers  who  have  the  public  ear  at  the  present 
moment,  these  reformers  are  public  enemies ;  they 
are  guilty  of  everything  that  has  gone  wrong.  "  O 
Romans !  "  said  Tertullian,  "  we  are  just,  kind, 
thinking,  lettered,  honest  men.  We  meet  to  pray, 
and  we  love  you  because  you  are  our  brethren.  We 
are  gentle  and  peaceable  like  little  children,  and 
we  wish  for  concord  among  men.  Neverthe- 
less, O  Romans,  if  the  Tiber  overflows,  or  if  the 
Nile  does  not,  you  cry,  *  To  the  lions  with  the 
Christians ! ' " 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  democratic  idea,  the  new  bridge  of  civiliza- 
tion, is  just  now  undergoing  the  formidable  trial 
of  overweight.  Every  other  idea  would  certainly 
give  way  under  the  load  that  it  is  made  to  bear. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  299 

Democracy  proves  its  solidity  by  the  absurdities 
that  are  heaped  upon  it  without  shaking  it.  It 
must  bear  everything  that  people  choose  to  place 
upon  it.  At  this  moment  they  are  attempting  to 
make  it  carry  despotism. 

"  The  people  have  no  need  of  liberty,"  —  such 
was  the  password  of  a  certain  innocent  but  deluded 
school,  the  head  of  which  has  been  dead  some 
years.  That  poor  honest  dreamer  sincerely  be- 
lieved that  progress  can  continue  without  freedom. 
We  have  heard  him  put  forth,  probably  without  in- 
tention, this  aphorism :  "  Freedom  is  good  for  the 
rich."  Such  maxims  have  the  disadvantage  of  not 
being  prejudicial  to  the  establishment  of  empires. 

No,  no,  no  ;   nothing  without  freedom  ! 

Servitude  is  the  soul  blinded.  Can  you  picture 
to  yourself  a  man  voluntarily  blind?  This  terrible 
thing  exists.  There  are  willing  slaves.  A  smile 
in  irons!  Can  anything  be  more  hideous?  He 
who  is  not  free  is  not  a  man ;  he  who  is  not  free 
has  no  sight,  no  knowledge,  no  discernment,  no 
growth,  no  comprehension,  no  will,  no  faith,  no 
love;  he  has  no  wife  and  children,  he  has  only 
a  female  with  young:  he  lives  not.  Ab  luce 
principium.  Freedom  is  the  apple  of  the  eye; 
freedom  is  the  visual  organ  of  progress. 

To  attempt,  because  freedom  has  inconveniences 
and  even  perils,  to  produce  civilization  without  it, 
would  be  like  attempting  to  cultivate  the  ground 
without  the  sun,  —  which  is  also  a  not  unexcep- 
tionable star.  One  day,  in  the  too  beautiful  summer 
of  1829,  a  critic,  now  forgotten, — and  wrongly,  for 
he  was  not  without  some  talent,  —  M.  P.,  feeling 


300  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

too  warm,  exclaimed  as  he  mended  his  pen:  "I 
am  going  to  write  down  the  sun." 

Certain  social  theories,  very  distinct  from  Social- 
ism as  we  understand  it  and  desire  it,  have  gone 
astray.  Let  us  discard  all  that  resembles  the  con- 
vent, the  barrack,  the  cell,  and  the  straight  line. 
Paraguay  minus  the  Jesuits  is  Paraguay  just  the 
same.  To  give  a  new  shape  to  the  evil  is  not  a  useful 
task.  To  remodel  the  old  slavery  would  be  stupid. 
Let  the  nations  of  Europe  beware  of  a  despotism 
made  anew  from  materials  which  to  some  extent 
they  have  themselves  supplied.  Such  a  thing, 
cemented  with  a  special  philosophy,  might  easily 
endure.  We  have  just  mentioned  the  theorists, 
some  of  them  otherwise  upright  and  sincere,  who, 
through  fear  of  a  dispersion  of  activities  and  ener- 
gies, and  of  what  they  call  "  anarchy,"  have  arrived 
at  an  almost  Chinese  acceptance  of  absolute  social 
centralization.  They  turn  their  resignation  into  a 
doctrine.  Provided  man  eats  and  drinks,  all  is 
right.  The  happiness  of  the  beast  is  the  solution. 
But  this  is  a  happiness  which  others  might  call  by 
a  different  name. 

We  dream  for  nations  something  besides  a  felicity 
made  up  solely  of  obedience.  The  bastinado  sums 
up  that  sort  of  felicity  for  the  Turkish  fellah,  the 
knout  for  the  Russian  serf,  and  the  cat-o'-nine-tails 
for  the  English  soldier.  These  Socialists  outside 
of  Socialism  derive  from  Joseph  de  Maistre  and 
from  Ancillon,  perhaps  without  suspecting  it;  for 
these  ingenious  theorists,  the  partisans  of  the  "  deed 
accomplished,"  have —  or  fancy  they  have  —  dem- 
ocratic intentions,  and  speak  energetically  of  "  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  30 1 

principles  of  '89."  Let  these  involuntary  philoso- 
phers of  a  possible  despotism  reflect  that  to  indoc- 
trinate the  masses  against  freedom,  to  allow  appetite 
and  fatalism  to  get  a  hold  upon  the  minds  of  men, 
to  saturate  them  with  materialism  and  expose  them 
to  the  results,  —  this  would  be  to  understand  pro- 
gress in  the  fashion  of  that  worthy  man  who  ap- 
plauded a  new  gibbet  and  exclaimed,  "  Excellent ! 
We  have  had  till  now  only  an  old  wooden  gallows ; 
but  times  have  changed  for  the  better,  and  here 
we  are  with  a  good  stone  gibbet,  which  will  do  for 
our  children  and  our  grandchildren !  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

To  enjoy  a  full  stomach,  a  satisfied  digestion,  a 
satiated  belly,  is  doubtless  something,  for  it  is  the 
enjoyment  of  the  brute.  However,  one  may  set 
one's  ambition  higher. 

Certainly,  a  good  salary  is  a  fine  thing.  To 
have  beneath  one's  feet  the  firm  ground  of  good 
wages,  is  pleasant.  The  wise  man  likes  to  want 
nothing.  To  assure  his  own  position  is  the  char- 
acteristic of  an  intelligent  man.  An  official  chair, 
with  ten  thousand  sesterces  a  year,  is  a  graceful 
and  convenient  seat;  liberal  emoluments  give  a 
fresh  complexion  and  good  health ;  one  lives  to  an 
old  age  in  pleasant  well-paid  sinecures;  the  high 
financial  world,  abounding  in  profits,  is  a  place 
agreeable  to  live  in;  to  be  on  a  good  footing  at 


302  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

court  settles  a  family  well  and  brings  a  fortune. 
As  for  myself,  I  prefer  to  all  these  solid  comforts 
the  old  leaky  vessel  in  which  Bishop  Quodvultdeus 
embarks  with  a  smile. 

There  is  something  beyond  satisfying  one's  ap- 
petite. The  goal  of  man  is  not  the  goal  of  the 
animal. 

A  moral  lift  is  necessary.  The  life  of  nations, 
like  the  life  of  individuals,  has  its  moments  of  de- 
pression; these  moments  pass,  certainly,  but  no 
trace  of  them  ought  to  remain.  Man,  at  this  day, 
tends  to  fall  into  the  stomach:  man  must  be  re- 
placed in  the  heart,  man  must  be  replaced  in  the 
brain.  The  brain,  —  this  is  the  bold  sovereign  that 
must  be  restored !  The  social  question  requires 
to-day,  more  than  ever,  to  be  examined  on  the  side 
of  human  dignity. 

To  show  man  the  human  goal;  to  ameliorate 
intelligence  first,  the  animal  afterward ;  to  contemn 
the  flesh  as  long  as  the  thought  is  despised,  and  to 
set  the  example  upon  their  own  flesh,  —  such  is 
the  actual,  immediate,  urgent  duty  of  writers. 

This  is  what  men  of  genius  have  done  at  all 
times. 

You  ask  in  what  poets  can  be  useful.  Simply 
this, —  in  permeating  civilization  with  light. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  303 


CHAPTER  V. 

UP  to  this  day  there  has  been  a  literature  for 
the  lettered.  In  France  particularly,  as  we  have 
already  said,  literature  tended  to  form  a  caste.  To 
be  a  poet  was  something  like  being  a  mandarin. 
Words  did  not  all  belong  by  right  to  the  language ; 
registration  was  granted  or  refused  by  the  dictio- 
nary. The  dictionary  had  a  will  of  its  own.  Imag- 
ine the  botanist  declaring  to  a  vegetable  that  it 
does  not  exist,  and  Nature  timidly  offering  an  in- 
sect to  entomology  which  refuses  it  as  incorrect ! 
Imagine  astronomy  cavilling  at  the  stars !  We 
recollect  having  heard  an  academician,  now  dead, 
say  before  the  full  Academy  that  French  had  been 
spoken  in  France  only  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  then  for  but  twelve  years, — we  no  longer  re- 
collect which  years.  Let  us  abandon  —  for  it  is 
time  —  this  order  of  ideas;  democracy  requires 
it.  The  present  enlargement  of  thought  demands 
something  else.  Let  us  forsake  the  college,  the 
conclave,  the  cell,  trivial  tastes,  trivial  art,  the 
trivial  chapel. 

Poetry  is  not  a  coterie.  An  effort  is  now  being 
made  to  galvanize  things  that  are  defunct.  Let  us 
strive  against  this  tendency.  Let  us  insist  on  the 
truths  that  are  urgent.  The  masterpieces  recom- 
mended by  the  manual  for  the  bachelorship,  com- 
pliments in  verse  and  in  prose,  tragedies  serving 
merely  as  canopies  over  the  head  of  some  king, 


304  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

inspiration  in  full  dress,  decorated  big-wigs  laying 
down  the  laws  of  poetry,  the  manuals  of  poetic  art 
which  forget  La  Fontaine  and  for  which  Moliere  is 
a  "-perhaps,"  the  Planats  emasculating  the  Cor- 
neilles,  prudish  tongues,  thought  shut  in  between 
the  four  walls  of  Quintilian,  Longinus,  Boileau, 
and  La  Harpe :  all  this  —  although  the  official 
public  instruction  is  soaked  and  saturated  with  it 
—  all  this  is  of  the  past.  A  certain  epoch  called 
the  great  century — which  was  certainly,  for  litera- 
ture, a  fine  century  —  is  after  all,  at  bottom,  noth- 
ing but  a  literary  monologue.  Is  it  possible  to 
realize  such  a  thing,  —  a  literature  which  is  an 
aside?  A  certain  form  of  art  seems  to  bear  upon 
its  pediment  the  legend,  "  No  admittance."  As 
for  ourselves,  we  understand  poetry  only  with  the 
door  wide  open.  The  hour  has  struck  for  hoisting 
the  "All  for  All."  What  is  needed  by  civiliza- 
tion, henceforth  a  grown-up  matron,  is  a  popular 
literature. 

The  year  1832  opened  a  debate,  on  the  surface 
literary,  at  bottom  social  and  human.  The  time  has 
come  to  conclude  the  debate.  We  conclude  it  in 
favor  of  a  literature  having  in  view  this  goal: 
-The  People." 

Thirty-one  years  ago  the  author  of  these  pages 
wrote,  in  the  preface  to  '  Lucretia  Borgia,'  a  word 
often  repeated  since:  "The  poet  feels  the  burden 
of  souls."  Were  it  worth  while,  he  would  add  here 
that,  possible  error  apart,  this  utterance  of  his  con- 
science has  been  the  rule  of  his  life. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  305 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MACCHIAVELLI  cast  upon  the  people  a  strange 
glance.  To  heap  the  measure,  to  overflow  the  cup, 
to  exaggerate  the  horror  of  the  prince's  deed,  to 
make  the  burden  more  crushing  in  order  to  make 
the  revolt  more  certain,  to  cause  idolatry  to  grow 
into  execration,  to  push  the  masses  to  extremities, 
—  such  seems  to  be  his  policy.  His  Yes  signifies 
No.  He  charges  despotism  to  the  muzzle  in  order 
to  explode  it ;  the  tyrant  becomes  in  his  hands  a 
hideous  projectile  which  will  shatter  itself.  Mac- 
chiavelli  conspires.  For  whom?  Against  whom? 
Guess !  His  apotheosis  of  kings  is  thus  the  thing 
to  make  regicides.  On  the  head  of  his  Prince  he 
places  a  diadem  of  crimes,  a  tiara  of  vices,  a  halo 
of  baseness,  and  he  invites  you  to  adore  his  mon- 
ster with  the  air  of  a  man  expecting  an  avenger. 
He  glorifies  evil  with  a  sidelong  glance  toward  the 
shadow  where  Harmodius  lurks.  Macchiavelli, 
this  getter  up  of  princely  outrages,  this  servant  of 
the  Medici  and  of  the  Borgias,  had  in  his  youth 
been  put  to  the  rack  for  admiring  Brutus  and  Cas- 
sius.  He  had  perhaps  plotted  with  the  Soderini 
for  the  deliverance  of  Florence.  Does  he  remem- 
ber this?  Does  he  continue?  His  advice  is  fol- 
lowed, like  the  lightning,  by  a  low  rumbling  in 
the  cloud,  an  alarming  reverberation.  What  did 
he  mean  to  say?  Against  whom  has  he  a  design? 
Is  the  advice  for  or  against  him  to  whom  he  gives 
it?  One  day  at  Florence,  in  the  garden  of  Cosmo 

20 


306  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Ruccelai,  there  being  present  the  Duke  of  Mantua 
and  John  de'  Medici,  who  afterward  commanded 
the  Black  Bands  of  Tuscany,  Varchi,  the  enemy 
of  Macchiavelli,  heard  the  latter  say  to  the  two 
princes,  "  Let  the  people  read  no  book,  not  even 
mine."  It  is  curious  to  compare  with  this  remark 
the  advice  given  by  Voltaire  to  the  Due  de 
Choiseul,  —  at  once  advice  to  the  minister,  and  in- 
sinuation for  the  King :  "  Let  the  noodles  read  our 
nonsense ;  there  is  no  danger  in  reading,  my  lord. 
What  can  a  great  monarch  like  the  King  of  France 
fear?  The  people  are  but  rabble,  and  the  books  are 
but  trash."  Let  them  read  nothing  —  let  them 
read  everything.  These  two  pieces  of  contrary  ad- 
vice coincide  more  than  one  would  think.  Vol- 
taire with  hidden  claws  is  purring  at  the  feet  of 
the  King.  Voltaire  and  Macchiavelli  are  two  for- 
midable, indirect  revolutionists,  dissimilar  in  every- 
thing, and  yet  really  identical  by  their  profound 
hatred  disguised  as  flattery  of  their  master.  The 
one  is  sly,  the  other  is  sinister.  The  princes  of 
the  sixteenth  century  had  as  theorist  upon  their 
infamies,  and  as  enigmatical  courtier,  Macchiavelli, 
a  dark  enthusiast.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be 
flattered  by  a  sphinx !  Better  to  be  flattered,  like 
Louis  XV,  by  a  cat. 

Conclusion :  Make  the  people  read  Macchiavelli, 
and  make  them  read  Voltaire. 

Macchiavelli  will  inspire  them  with  horror,  and 
Voltaire  with  contempt,  for  crowned  guilt. 

But  the  hearts  should  turn,  above  all,  toward  the 
grand,  pure  poets,  be  they  sweet  like  Virgil,  or 
bitter  like  Juvenal. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  307 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  progress  of  man  through  intellectual  ad- 
vancement :  there  is  no  safety  but  in  that.  Teach  \ 
learn !  All  the  revolutions  of  the  future  are  en- 
closed and  engulfed  in  this  phrase :  Gratuitous  and 
obligatory  instruction. 

This  large  scheme  of  intellectual  instruction 
should  be  crowned  by  the  exposition  of  works  of 
the  first  order.  The  highest  place  to  the  men  of 
genius ! 

Wherever  there  is  a  gathering  of  men,  there 
ought  to  be,  in  a  special  place,  a  public  expositor 
of  the  great  thinkers. 

By  a  great  thinker  we  mean  a  beneficent  thinker. 

The  perpetual  presence  of  the  beautiful  in  their 
works  makes  the  poets  the  highest  of  teachers. 

No  one  can  foresee  the  quantity  of  light  that 
will  be  evolved  by  placing  the  people  in  commu- 
nication with  men  of  genius.  The  combination  of 
the  heart  of  the  people  with  the  heart  of  the  poet 
will  be  the  voltaic  pile  of  civilization. 

Will  the  people  understand  this  magnificent 
teaching?  Certainly.  We  know  of  nothing  too 
high  for  the  people.  The  soul  of  the  people  is 
great.  Have  you  ever  gone,  of  a  holiday,  to  a 
theatre  open  gratuitously  to  all?  What  do  you 
think  of  that  audience.  Do  you  know  of  any 
other  more  spontaneous  and  intelligent?  Do  you 
know,  even  in  the  forest,  a  vibration  more  pro- 


308  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

found?  The  court  of  Versailles  admires  like  a 
well-drilled  regiment;  the  people  throw  them- 
selves passionately  into  the  beautiful.  They  pack 
together,  crowd,  amalgamate,  combine,  and  knead 
themselves  in  the  theatre,  —  a  living  paste,  which 
the  poet  is  about  to  mould.  The  powerful  thumb 
of  Moliere  will  presently  make  its  mark  on  it;  the 
nail  of  Corneille  will  scratch  this  shapeless  mass. 
Whence  does  that  mass  come?  From  the  Cour- 
tille,  from  the  Porcherons,  from  the  Cunette ;  it  is 
barefoot,  barearmed,  ragged.  Silence !  This  is 
the  raw  material  of  humanity.1 

The  house  is  crowded ;  the  vast  multitude  looks, 
listens,  loves  ;  all  consciences,  deeply  moved,  throw 
out  their  internal  fire;  all  eyes  glisten;  the  huge, 
thousand-headed  beast  is  there,  the  Mob  of  Burke, 
the  Plebs  of  Titus  Livius,  the  Fex  Urbis  of  Cicero. 
It  caresses  the  beautiful,  smiling  at  it  with  the 
grace  of  a  woman.  It  is  literary  in  the  most 
refined  sense  of  the  word ;  nothing  equals  the 
delicacy  of  this  monster.  The  tumultuous  crowd 
trembles,  blushes,  palpitates;  its  modesty  is  sur- 
prising: the  crowd  is  a  virgin.  No  prudery,  how- 
ever; this  creature  is  no  fool.  It  is  wanting  in 
no  kind  of  sympathy;  it  has  in  itself  the  whole 
keyboard,  from  passion  to  irony,  from  sarcasm  to 
the  sob.  Its  pity  is  more  than  pity,  it  is  real 
mercy.  God  is  felt  in  it.  Suddenly  the  sublime 
passes,  and  the  sombre  electricity  of  the  deep 
instantly  arouses  all  that  mass  of  hearts ;  enthusi- 
asm works  its  transfiguration.  And  now,  is  the 

1  The  places  mentioned  are  banlieuesy  or  low  quarters  of  Paris, 
full  of  drinking-dens.  —  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  309 

enemy  at  the  gates?  is  the  country  in  danger? 
Give  the  word  to  this  populace,  and  it  will  re-enact 
Thermopylae.  What  has  produced  this  transfor- 
mation? Poetry. 

The  multitude  —  and  in  this  lies  their  grandeur 
—  are  profoundly  open  to  the  ideal.  When  they 
come  in  contact  with  lofty  art  they  are  pleased, 
they  palpitate.  Not  a  detail  escapes  them.  The 
crowd  is  one  liquid  and  living  expanse  capable  of 
vibration.  A  mob  is  a  sensitive-plant.  Contact 
with  the  beautiful  stirs  ecstatically  the  surface  of 
multitudes,  —  a  sure  sign  that  the  deeps  are 
sounded.  A  rustling  of  leaves  —  a  mysterious 
passing  breath  —  the  crowd  trembles  beneath  the 
sacred  insufflation  of  the  deep. 

And  even  when  the  man  of  the  people  is  not 
of  the  crowd,  he  is  still  a  good  auditor  of  great 
things.  His  ingenuousness  is  honest,  his  curiosity 
healthy.  Ignorance  is  a  longing.  His  near  rela- 
tion with  Nature  renders  him  open  to  the  holy 
emotion  of  the  true.  He  has  secret  absorbents 
for  poetry  which  he  himself  does  not  suspect. 
Every  kind  of  instruction  is  due  to  the  people. 
The  more  divine  the  light,  the  more  is  it  made  for 
this  simple  soul.  We  would  have  in  every  village 
a  chair  from  which  Homer  should  be  explained  to 
the  peasants. 


310  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

EXCESSIVE  devotion  to  the  material  is  the  evil 
of  our  epoch ;  hence  a  certain  sluggishness. 

The  great  problem  is  to  restore  to  the  human 
mind  something  of  the  ideal.  Whence  shall  we 
draw  the  ideal  ?  Wherever  it  is  to  be  found.  The 
poets,  the  philosophers,  the  thinkers  are  its  urns. 
The  ideal  is  in  yEschylus,  in  Isaiah,  in  Juvenal,  in 
Alighieri,  in  Shakespeare.  Thro w^Eschylus,  throw 
Isaiah,  throw  Juvenal,  throw  Dante,  throw  Shake- 
speare into  the  deep  soul  of  the  human  race. 

Pour  Job,  Solomon,  Pindar,  Ezekiel,  Sophocles, 
Euripides,  Herodotus,  Theocritus,  Plautus,  Lucre- 
tius, Virgil,  Terence,  Horace,  Catullus,  Tacitus,  Saint 
Paul,  Saint  Augustine,  Tertullian,  Petrarch,  Pascal, 
Milton,  Descartes,  Corneille,  La  Fontaine,  Montes- 
quieu, Diderot,  Rousseau,  Beaumarchais,  Sedaine, 
Andre"  Chenier,  Kant,  Byron,  Schiller,  —  pour  all 
these  souls  into  man. 

Pour  in  all  the  wits  from  ^Esop  up  to  Moliere, 
all  the  intellects  from  Plato  up  to  Newton,  all  the 
encyclopaedists  from  Aristotle  up  to  Voltaire. 

By  this  means  you  will  cure  the  present  malady 
and  establish  forever  the  health  of  the  human  mind. 

You  will  cure  the  middle-class,  and  found  the 
people. 

As  already  indicated,  after  the  destruction  which 
has  delivered  the  world,  you  will  construct  the 
home  for  the  permanent  life  of  the  race. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  311 

What  an  aim  —  to  construct  the  people  !  Prin- 
ciples combined  with  science,  all  possible  quantity 
of  the  absolute  introduced  by  degrees  into  the  fact, 
Utopia  treated  successively  by  every  mode  of  reali- 
zation, —  by  political  economy,  by  philosophy,  by 
physics,  by  chemistry,  by  dynamics,  by  logic,  by 
art ;  union  gradually  replacing  antagonism,  and 
unity  replacing  union;  for  religion  God,  for  priest 
the  father,  for  prayer  virtue,  for  field  the  whole 
earth,  for  language  the  word,  for  law  the  right,  for 
motive-power  duty,  for  hygiene  labor,  for  economy 
universal  peace,  for  canvas  the  very  life,  for  the 
goal  progress,  for  authority  freedom,  for  people 
the  man.  Such  is  the  simplification. 

And  at  the  summit  the  ideal. 

The  ideal !  — stable  type  of  ever-moving  progress. 

To  whom  belong  men  of  genius,  if  not  to  thee, 
O  people?  They  do  belong  to  thee ;  they  are  thy 
sons  and  thy  fathers.  Thou  givest  birth  to  them, 
and  they  teach  thee.  They  open  in  thy  chaos 
vistas  of  light.  As  children,  they  have  drunk  at 
thy  breasts.  They  have  leaped  in  the  universal 
matrix  of  humanity.  Each  of  thy  phases,  O  people, 
is  an  avatar.  The  deep  action  of  life,  —  it  is  in  thee 
that  it  must  be  sought.  Thou  art  the  great  mother. 
From  thee  issue  the  mysterious  company  of  the 
intelligences :  to  thee,  therefore,  let  them  return. 

To  thee,  O  people,  they  are  dedicated  by  their 
author,  God ! 


BOOK  VI. 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  THE  SERVANT  OF  THE 
TRUE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

AH,  minds,  be  useful !  Be  of  some  service.  Do 
not  be  fastidious  when  so  much  depends 
upon  being  efficient  and  good.  Art  for  art's  sake 
may  be  very  fine,  but  art  for  progress  is  finer  still. 
To  dream  of  castles  in  Spain  is  well ;  to  dream  of 
Utopia  is  better.  Ah  !  you  must  think?  Then 
think  of  making  man  better.  You  must  have  a 
vision?  Here  is  a  vision  for  you,  —  the  ideal.  The 
prophet  seeks  solitude,  but  not  isolation.  He  un- 
ravels and  untwists  the  threads  of  humanity,  tied 
and  rolled  in  a  skein  within  his  soul ;  he  does  not 
break  them.  He  goes  into  the  desert  to  think  — 
of  whom?  Of  the  multitudes.  It  is  not  to  the 
forests  that  he  speaks,  it  is  to  the  cities.  It  is  not 
a  reed  that  he  sees  shaken  with  the  wind,  it  is 
man  ;  it  is  not  against  lions  that  he  cries  aloud, 
it  is  against  tyrants.  Woe  unto  thee,  Ahab !  woe 
unto  thee,  Hoshea  !  woe  unto  you,  kings  !  woe 
unto  you,  Pharaohs  !  is  the  cry  of  the  great  solitary. 
Then  he  weeps. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE,  313 

Over  what?  Over  that  eternal  Babylonish  cap- 
tivity suffered  long  ago  by  Israel ;  suffered  by  Po- 
land, by  Roumania,  by  Hungary,  by  Venice  to-day. 
He  grows  old,  the  good  and  gloomy  thinker ;  he 
watches,  he  lies  in  wait,  he  listens,  he  looks,  his 
ear  inclined  to  the  silence,  his  eye  straining  into 
the  night,  his  claw  half  unsheathed  toward  the 
wicked.  Go,  then,  and  talk  of  "  art  for  art's  sake  " 
to  this  cenobite  of  the  ideal.  He  walks  straight 
toward  his  goal,  which  is  this :  the  best.  To  this 
he  is  consecrated. 

He  is  not  his  own  ;  he  belongs  to  his  apostleship. 
To  him  is  intrusted  the  great  duty  of  impelling  the 
human  race  upon  its  forward  march.  Genius  is  not 
made  for  genius,  it  is  made  for  man.  Genius  on 
earth  is  God  giving  himself.  Whenever  a  master- 
piece appears,  a  distribution  of  God  is  taking 
place.  The  masterpiece  is  a  variety  of  the  mira- 
cle. Thence,  in  all  religions  and  among  all  peoples, 
comes  faith  in  divine  men.  They  deceive  them- 
selves who  think  that  we  deny  the  divinity  of  the 
Christs. 

At  the  point  now  reached  by  the  social  question, 
all  action  should  be  in  common.  Isolated  forces 
frustrate  one  another;  the  ideal  and  the  real  are 
solidary.  Art  should  aid  science.  These  two 
wheels  of  progress  should  turn  together. 

Generation  of  new  talents,  noble  group  of  writers 
and  poets,  legion  of  young  men,  O  living  future  of 
my  country,  your  elders  love  and  salute  you ! 
Courage  !  let  us  consecrate  ourselves.  Let  us 
devote  ourselves  to  the  good,  to  the  true,  to  the 
just;  it  is  well  for  us  to  do  so. 


314  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Some  pure  lovers  of  art,  moved  by  a  solicitude 
which  is  not  without  its  dignity  and  its  nobility, 
discard  the  formula,  "  Art  for  Progress,"  the  Beau- 
tiful Useful,  fearing  lest  the  useful  should  deform 
the  beautiful.  They  tremble  to  see  the  drudge's 
hand  attached  to  the  muse's  arm.  According  to 
them,  the  ideal  may  become  perverted  by  too 
much  contact  with  reality.  They  are  solicitous 
for  the  sublime  if  it  descends  as  far  as  to  humanity. 
Ah  !  they  are  in  error. 

The  useful,  far  from  circumscribing  the  sublime, 
enlarges  it.  The  application  of  the  sublime  to 
human  affairs  produces  unexpected  masterpieces. 
The  useful,  considered  in  itself  and  as  an  element 
combining  with  the  sublime,  is  of  several  kinds: 
there  is  the  useful  which  is  tender,  and  there  is  the 
useful  which  is  indignant.  Tender,  it  cheers  the  un- 
fortunate and  creates  the  social  epopee ;  indignant, 
it  flagellates  the  wicked  and  creates  the  divine  satire. 
Moses  passes  the  rod  to  Jesus;  and  after  having 
caused  the  water  to  gush  from  the  rock,  that  same 
august  rod  drives  the  vendors  from  the  Temple. 

What!  could  art  decrease  by  being  expanded? 
No ;  a  further  service  is  an  added  beauty. 

But  people  protest:  To  undertake  the  cure  of 
social  evils,  to  amend  the  codes,  to  impeach  law  in 
the  court  of  right,  to  utter  those  hideous  words, 
"  penitentiary,"  "  convict-keeper,"  "  galley-slave," 
"  girl  of  the  town ;  "  to  inspect  the  police  registers, 
to  contract  the  business  of  dispensaries,  to  study 
the  questions  of  wages  and  want  of  work,  to  taste 
the  black  bread  of  the  poor,  to  seek  labor  for  the 
working-woman,  to  confront  fashionable  idleness 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  3 1 5 

with  ragged  sloth,  to  throw  down  the  partition  of 
ignorance,  to  open  schools,  to  teach  little  children 
how  to  read ;  to  attack  shame,  infamy,  error,  vice, 
crime,  want  of  conscience ;  to  preach  the  multiplica- 
tion of  spelling-books,  to  proclaim  the  equality  of  the 
sun,  to  improve  the  food  of  intellects  and  of  hearts, 
to  give  meat  and  drink,  to  demand  solutions  for  prob- 
lems and  shoes  for  naked  feet,  —  these  things  are 
not  the  business  of  the  azure.  Art  is  the  azure. 

Yes,  art  is  the  azure ;  but  the  azure  from  above, 
whence  falls  the  ray  which  swells  the  wheat,  yellows 
the  maize,  rounds  the  apple,  gilds  the  orange, 
sweetens  the  grape.  Again  I  say,  a  further  ser- 
vice is  an  added  beauty.  At  all  events,  where  is 
the  diminution?  To  ripen  the  beet-root,  to  water 
the  potato,  to  increase  the  yield  of  lucern,  of  clover, 
or  of  hay ;  to  be  a  fellow-workman  with  the  plough- 
man, the  vine-dresser,  and  the  gardener,  —  this  does 
not  deprive  the  heavens  of  one  star.  Ah  !  immen- 
sity does  not  despise  utility,  —  and  what  does  it 
lose  by  it?  Does  the  vast  vital  fluid  that  we  call 
magnetic  or  electric  flash  through  the  cloud-masses 
with  less  splendor  because  it  consents  to  perform 
the  office  of  pilot  to  a  bark,  and  to  keep  constant 
to  the  north  the  little  needle  intrusted  to  it,  the 
gigantic  guide  ?  Is  Aurora  less  splendid,  clad 
less  in  purple  and  emerald ;  suffers  she  any  dimi- 
nution of  majesty  and  of  radiant  grace,  —  because, 
foreseeing  an  insect's  thirst,  she  carefully  secretes 
in  the  flower  the  dewdrop  needed  by  the  bee? 

Yet  people  insist  that  to  compose  social  poetry, 
human  poetry,  popular  poetry ;  to  grumble  against 
the  evil  and  laud  the  good,  to  be  the  spokesman  of 


3  1 6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

public  wrath,  to  insult  despots,  to  make  knaves 
despair,  to  emancipate  man  before  he  is  of  age, 
to  push  souls  forward  and  darkness  backward,  to 
know  that  there  are  thieves  and  tyrants,  to  clean 
penal  cells,  to  flush  the  sewer  of  public  unclean- 
ness,  —  shall  Polyhymnia  bare  her  arm  to  these 
sordid  tasks?  Fie ! 

Why  not? 

Homer  was  the  geographer  and  historian  of  his 
time,  Moses  the  legislator  of  his,  Juvenal  the  judge 
of  his,  Dante  the  theologian  of  his,  Shakespeare  the 
moralist  of  his,  Voltaire  the  philosopher  of  his.  No 
region,  in  speculation  or  in  fact,  is  shut  to  the  mind. 
Here  a  horizon,  there  wings ;  freedom  for  all  to  soar. 

For  certain  sublime  beings,  to  soar  is  to  serve. 
In  the  desert,  not  a  drop  of  water ;  the  wretched  file 
of  pilgrims  drag  along,  overcome  with  a  horrible 
thirst;  suddenly,  in  the  horizon,  above  an  undula- 
tion in  the  sands,  a  lammergeier  is  seen  soaring, 
and  all  the  caravan  cry  out,  "  There  is  a  spring !  " 

What  thinks  ^Eschylus  of  art  for  art's  sake?  If 
ever  there  was  a  poet,  ^Eschylus  is  certainly  he. 
Listen  to  his  reply.  It  is  in  the  '  Frogs '  of  Ari- 
stophanes, line  1039.  ^schylus  speaks:  "From 
the  beginning  the  illustrious  poet  has  served  men. 
Orpheus  has  taught  the  horror  of  murder,  Musaeus 
oracles  and  medicine,  Hesiod  agriculture,  and 
divine  Homer  heroism.  And  I,  after  Homer,  have 
sung  Patroclus,  and  Teucer  the  lion-hearted,  to 
the  end  that  every  citizen  may  endeavor  to  imi- 
tate great  men." 

Just  as  the  whole  sea  is  salt,  the  whole  Bible  is 
poetry.  This  poetry  takes  its  own  time  for  talking 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  317 

politics.  Open  I.  Samuel,  chapter  viii.  The 
Jewish  people  demand  a  king.  " .  .  .  And  the 
Lord  said  unto  Samuel,  Hearken  unto  the  voice 
of  the  people  in  all  that  they  say  unto  thee :  for 
they  have  not  rejected  thee,  but  they  have  rejected 
me,  that  I  should  not  reign  over  them.  .  .  .  And 
Samuel  told  all  the  words  of  the  Lord  unto  the  peo- 
ple that  asked  of  him  a  king.  And  he  said,  This 
will  be  the  manner  of  the  king  that  shall  reign  over 
you  :  He  will  take  your  sons,  and  appoint  them  for 
himself,  for  his  chariots,  and  to  be  his  horsemen ; 
and  some  shall  run  before  his  chariots.  .  .  .  And 
he  will  take  your  daughters  to  be  confectionaries, 
and  to  be  cooks,  and  to  be  bakers.  And  he  will 
take  your  fields,  and  your  vineyards,  and  your 
oliveyards,  even  the  best  of  them,  and  give  them 
to  his  servants.  .  .  .  And  he  will  take  your  men- 
servants,  and  your  maid-servants,  and  your  good- 
liest young  men,  and  your  asses,  and  put  them  to 
his  work.  He  will  take  the  tenth  of  your  sheep : 
and  ye  shall  be  his  servants.  And  ye  shall  cry  out 
in  that  day  because  of  your  king  which  ye  shall 
have  chosen  you ;  and  the  Lord  will  not  hear  you 
in  that  day."  Samuel,  we  see,  denies  the  right 
divine ;  Deuteronomy  shakes  the  altar,  —  the  false 
altar,  let  us  observe;  but  is  not  the  next  altar 
always  the  false  altar?  "  Ye  shall  demolish  the 
altars  of  the  false  gods.  Ye  shall  seek  God 
where  he  dwells."  It  is  almost  Pantheism.  Be- 
cause it  takes  part  in  human  affairs,  because  it  is 
democratic  here,  iconoclastic  there,  is  this  book 
less  magnificent  and  less  supreme?  If  poetry  is 
not  in  the  Bible,  where  is  it? 


3  1 8  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

You  say :  The  muse  is  made  to  sing,  to  love,  to 
believe,  to  pray.  Yes,  and  no.  Let  us  understand 
each  other.  To  sing  whom?  The  void?  To  love 
whom?  One's  self?  To  believe  what?  The 
dogma?  To  pray  to  what?  The  idol?  No;  here 
is  the  truth  :  to  sing  the  ideal,  to  love  humanity,  to 
believe  in  progress,  to  pray  toward  the  infinite. 

Take  care,  ye  who  trace  these  circles  about  the 
poet ;  ye  place  him  outside  of  humanity.  That  the 
poet  should  be  beyond  humanity  in  one  way,  —  by 
his  wings,  by  his  immense  flight,  by  his  possible 
sudden  disappearance  in  the  fathomless,  —  is  well, 
it  must  be  so ;  but  on  condition  of  reappearance. 
He  may  go,  but  he  must  return.  Let  him  have 
wings  for  the  infinite,  provided  he  has  feet  for  the 
earth,  and  that,  after  having  been  seen  flying,  he  is 
seen  to  walk.  Having  gone  beyond  humanity,  let 
him  become  man  again.  After  he  has  been  seen 
as  an  archangel,  let  him  be  once  more  a  brother. 
Let  the  star  which  is  in  that  eye  shed  a  tear,  and 
let  it  be  a  human  tear.  Thus,  human  and  super- 
human, he  shall  be  the  poet.  But  to  be  altogether 
beyond  man,  is  not  to  be.  Show  me  thy  foot, 
genius,  and  let  us  see  if,  like  myself,  thou  hast  the 
dust  of  earth  upon  thy  heel.  If  thou  hast  never 
walked  in  the  dusty  footpath  which  I  tread,  thou 
knowest  not  me,  nor  I  thee.  Depart !  Thou  who 
believest  thyself  an  angel  art  but  a  bird. 

Help  from  the  strong  for  the  weak,  help  from 

the  great  for  the  small,  help  from  the  free  for  the 

.slaves,  help   from  the  thinkers    for  the  ignorant, 

help  from  the  solitary  for  the  multitudes,  —  such 

is  the  law,  from  Isaiah  to  Voltaire.     He  who  does 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  319 

not  follow  this  law  may  be  a  genius,  but  he  is  only 
a  genius  of  luxury.  By  not  handling  the  things 
of  the  earth,  he  thinks  to  purify  himself;  but  he 
annuls  himself.  He  is  the  refined,  the  delicate,  he 
may  be  the  exquisite  genius :  he  is  not  the  great 
genius.  Any  one,  roughly  useful,  but  useful,  has 
the  right  to  ask,  on  seeing  this  good-for-nothing 
genius,  "  Who  is  this  idler?  "  The  amphora  which 
refuses  to  go  to  the  fountain  deserves  the  hisses  of 
the  water-pots. 

Great  is  he  who  consecrates  himself!  Even 
when  overcome,  he  remains  serene,  and  his  misfor- 
tune is  happiness.  No,  it  is  not  a  bad  thing  for  the 
poet  to  be  brought  face  to  face  with  duty.  Duty 
has  a  stern  likeness  to  the  ideal.  The  task  of 
doing  one's  duty  is  worth  undertaking.  No,  the 
jostling  with  Cato  is  not  to  be  avoided.  No,  no, 
no ;  truth,  honesty,  the  instruction  of  the  masses, 
human  liberty,  manly  virtue,  conscience,  are  not 
things  to  disdain.  Indignation  and  compassion  for 
the  mournful  slavery  of  man  are  but  two  sides  of 
the  same  faculty ;  those  who  are  capable  of  wrath 
are  capable  of  love.  To  level  the  tyrant  and  the 
slave,  —  what  a  magnificent  endeavor!  Now,  the 
whole  of  one  side  of  actual  society  is  tyrant,  and 
all  the  other  side  is  slave.  A  grim  settlement  is 
impending,  and  it  will  be  accomplished.  All 
thinkers  must  work  with  that  end  in  view.  They 
will  gain  greatness  in  that  work.  To  be  the  ser- 
vant of  God  in  the  task  of  progress,  and  the 
apostle  of  God  to  the  people,  —  such  is  the  law 
which  regulates  the  growth  of  genius. 


320  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THERE  are  two  poets,  —  the  poet  of  caprice,  and 
the  poet  of  logic;  and  there  is  a  third  poet,  a 
composite  of  the  other  two,  correcting  and  com- 
pleting the  one  by  the  other,  and  summing  up  both 
in  a  higher  entity,  so  that  the  two  forms  are 
blended  in  one.  This  last  is  the  first.  He  has 
caprice,  and  he  follows  the  divine  breath ;  he  has 
logic,  and  he  follows  duty.  The  first  writes  the 
Song  of  Songs,  the  second  writes  Leviticus,  the 
third  writes  the  Psalms  and  the  Prophecies. 
The  first  is  Horace,  the  second  is  Lucan,  the  third 
is  Juvenal ;  the  first  is  Pindar,  the  second  is 
Hesiod,  the  third  is  Homer. 

No  loss  of  beauty  results  from  goodness.  Is  the 
lion  less  beautiful  than  the  tiger  because  he  has 
the  faculty  of  compassionate  emotion?  Is  that 
mane  deprived  of  its  majesty  because  the  jaw 
opens  to  drop  the  child  into  its  mother's  arms? 
Does  the  roaring  vanish  from  that  terrible  mouth 
because  it  has  licked  Androcles?  The  unhelpful 
genius,  no  matter  how  graceful,  is  really  ugly.  A 
prodigy  without  love  is  a  monster.  Let  us  love ! 
let  us  love ! 

To  love  has  never  hindered'  from  pleasing. 
Where  have  you  seen  one  form  of  the  good  ex- 
cluding the  other?  On  the  contrary,  all  that  is 
good  is  allied.  Let  me,  however,  be  understood : 
it  does  not  follow  that  to  have  one  quality  implies 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  32 1 

necessarily  the  possession  of  the  other;  but  it 
would  be  strange  that  one  quality  added  to  an- 
other should  produce  diminution.  To  be  useful, 
is  but  to  be  useful ;  to  be  beautiful,  is  but  to  be 
beautiful ;  to  be  both  useful  and  beautiful,  is  to  be 
sublime.  Such  are  Saint  Paul  in  the  first  century, 
Tacitus  and  Juvenal  in  the  second,  Dante  in  the 
thirteenth,  Shakespeare  in  the  sixteenth,  Milton 
and  Moliere  in  the  seventeenth. 

We  have  just  now  recalled  a  saying  that  has 
become  famous,  "  Art  for  art's  sake."  Let  us, 
once  for  all,  explain  ourselves  touching  this  ex- 
pression. If  an  assertion  very  general  and  very 
often  repeated  (in  good  faith,  we  believe)  can  be 
credited,  the  shibboleth,  "Art  for  art's  sake," 
must  have  been  written  by  the  author  of  this  book. 
Written?  never.  You  may  read,  from  the  first 
to  the  last  line,  all  that  we  have  published ;  you 
will  not  find  these  words.  It  is  the  contrary  that 
is  written  throughout  our  works,  and,  we  insist, 
in  our  entire  life.  As  to  the  expression  in  itself, 
what  reality  has  it?  Here  is  the  fact,  which  sev- 
eral of  our  contemporaries  remember  as  well  as 
we  do.  One  day,  thirty-five  years  ago,  in  a  dis- 
cussion between  critics  and  poets  on  Voltaire's 
tragedies,  the  author  of  this  book  threw  out  this 
interruption :  "  This  tragedy  is  not  a  tragedy.  It 
does  not  contain  living  men ;  it  contains  glib  max- 
ims. Rather,  a  hundred  times,  '  Art  for  art's 
sake.'  "  This  remark,  turned  —  doubtless  invol- 
untarily—  from  its  true  sense  to  serve  the  ends 
of  the  discussion,  has  since  assumed,  to  the  great 
surprise  of  him  who  had  uttered  it,  the  propor- 

21 


322  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

tions  of  a  formula.  It  is  this  phrase,  limited  to 
'  Alzire '  and  to  the  *  Orphan  of  China,'  and  in- 
contestable in  that  restricted  application,  which  has 
been  turned  into  a  perfect  declaration  of  principles, 
and  an  axiom  to  inscribe  on  the  banner  of  Art. 

This  point  settled,  let  us  go  on. 

Between  two  verses,  —  the  one  by  Pindar,  deifying 
a  coachman  or  glorifying  the  brazen  nails  of  a 
chariot  wheel ;  the  other  by  Archilochus,  so  pow- 
erful that,  after  having  read  it,  Jeffreys  would  leave 
off  his  career  of  crime  and  would  hang  himself  on 
the  gallows  prepared  by  him  for  honest  people,  — 
between  two  such  verses  of  equal  beauty,  I  prefer 
that  of  Archilochus. 

In  times  anterior  to  history,  when  poetry  is  fabu- 
lous and  legendary,  it  has  a  Promethean  grandeur. 
What  forms  this  grandeur?  Utility.  Orpheus 
tames  wild  animals;  Amphion  builds  cities;  the 
poet,  tamer  and  architect,  Linus  aiding  Hercules, 
Musaeus  assisting  Daedalus,  poetry  a  civilizing 
power,  —  such  are  the  origins.  Tradition  agrees 
with  reason :  in  that,  the  good  sense  of  the  nations 
is  not  deceived.  The  people  have  always  invented 
fables  in  the  interest  of  truth.  Magnified  by  that 
hazy  remoteness,  everything  is  great.  Now,  the 
beast-taming  poet  whom  you  admire  in  Orpheus, 
you  may  recognize  again  in  Juvenal. 

We  insist  on  Juvenal.  Few  poets  have  been 
more  insulted,  more  contested,  more  calumniated. 
Calumny  against  Juvenal  has  been  drawn  at  such 
long  date  that  it  still  lasts.  It  passes  from  one 
knave  of  the  pen  to  another.  These  grand  haters 
of  evil  are  hated  by  all  the  flatterers  of  power  and 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  323 

success.  The  mob  of  servile  sophists,  of  writers 
who  have  the  mark  of  the  collar  about  their  necks, 
of  bullying  historiographers,  of  scholiasts  kept  and 
fed,  of  court  and  school  followers,  stand  in  the  way 
of  the  punishers  and  avengers.  They  croak  around 
these  eagles.  Scant  and  grudging  justice  is  ren- 
dered to  dispensers  of  justice.  They  hinder  the 
masters,  and  rouse  the  indignation  of  the  lackeys, 
—  for  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  indignation  of 
baseness. 

Moreover,  the  diminutives  cannot  do  less  than 
help  each  other,  and  Caesarion  must  at  least  have 
Tyrannion  as  a  support.  The  pedant  breaks  ferules 
for  the  satrap.  For  such  jobs  there  are  lettered 
courtiers  and  official  pedagogues.  These  poor, 
dear  vices,  so  open-handed,  these  excellent  conde- 
scending crimes,  his  Highness  Rufinus,  his  Majesty 
Claudius,  the  august  Madame  Messalina  who  en- 
tertains so  sumptuously  and  grants  pensions  out  of 
her  privy  purse,  and  who  abides  and  perpetuates 
her  reign  under  the  names  of  Theodora,  Frede- 
gonde,  Agnes,  Margaret  of  Burgundy,  Isabel  of 
Bavaria,  Catherine  de'  Medici,  Catherine  of  Russia, 
Caroline  of  Naples,  etc.,  etc.,  —  all  these  great  lords 
the  crimes,  all  these  fine  ladies  the  turpitudes,  shall 
they  have  the  sorrow  of  witnessing  the  triumph 
of  Juvenal?  No.  War  with  the  scourge  in  the 
name  of  sceptres !  War  with  the  rod  in  the  name 
of  the  cliques !  That  is  well !  Go  on,  courtiers, 
clients,  eunuchs,  and  scribes.  Go  on,  publicans 
and  pharisees.  You  will  not  hinder  the  republic 
from  thanking  Juvenal,  or  the  temple  from  approv- 
ing Jesus. 


324  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Isaiah,  Juvenal,  Dante,  are  virgins.  Observe  their 
downcast  eyes.  There  is  chastity  in  the  wrath  of 
the  just  against  the  unjust.  The  Imprecation  can 
be  as  holy  as  the  Hosanna ;  and  indignation,  honest 
indignation,  has  the  very  purity  of  virtue.  In  point 
of  whiteness,  the  foam  has  no  reason  to  envy  the 
snow. 


CHAPTER   III. 

ALL  history  proves  the  working  partnership  of 
art  and  progress.  Dictus  ob  hoc  lenire  tigres. 
Rhythm  is  a  power,  —  a  power  that  the  Middle 
Ages  recognize  and  submit  to  not  less  than  an- 
tiquity. The  second  barbarism,  feudal  barbarism, 
also  dreads  the  power  of  verse.  The  barons,  not 
over-timid,  are  abashed  before  the  poet,  —  who  is 
this  man?  They  fear  lest  "  a  manly  song  be  sung." 
Behind  this  unknown  man  is  the  spirit  of  civilization. 
The  old  donjons  full  of  carnage  open  their  wild 
eyes  and  scan  the  darkness ;  anxiety  seizes  them. 
Feudality  trembles,  the  den  is  disturbed.  The 
dragons  and  the  hydras  are  ill  at  ease.  Why? 
Because  an  invisible  god  is  there. 

It  is  curious  to  find  this  power  of  poetry  in 
countries  where  barbarism  is  densest,  particularly 
in  England,  in  that  extreme  feudal  darkness,  "  pe- 
nitus  toto  divisos  orbe  Britannos."  If  we  believe 
the  legend,  —  a  form  of  history  as  true  and  as  false 
as  any  other,  —  it  is  due  to  poetry  that  Colgrim, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  325 

besieged  by  the  Britons,  is  relieved  in  York  by  his 
brother  Bardulf  the  Saxon ;  that  King  Awlof  pene- 
trates into  the  camp  of  Athelstan ;  that  Werburgh, 
prince  of  Northumbria,  is  delivered  by  the  Welsh, — 
whence,  it  is  said,  that  Celtic  device  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  Ich  dien;  l  that  Alfred,  King  of  England, 
triumphs  over  Gitro,  King  of  the  Danes,  and  that 
Richard  the  Lion-hearted  escapes  from  the  prison 
of  Losenstein.  Ranulf,  Earl  of  Chester,  attacked  in 
his  castle  of  Rothelan,  is  saved  by  the  intervention 
of  the  minstrels,  —  the  legend  is  confirmed  by  the 
privileges  still  enjoyed  under  Elizabeth  by  the 
minstrels,  who  were  patronized  by  the  Lords  of 
Dalton. 

The  poet  had  the  right  of  reprimand  and  menace. 
In  1316,  at  Whitsuntide,  Edward  II.  being  at  table 
in  the  grand  hall  of  Westminster  with  the  peers  of 
England,  a  female  minstrel  entered  the  hall  on 
horseback,  rode  all  around,  saluted  Edward  II., 
predicted  in  a  loud  voice  to  the  minion  Spencer 
the  gibbet  and  castration  by  the  hand  of  the  exe- 
cutioner, and  to  the  King  the  horn  by  means  of 
which  a  red-hot  iron  should  be  buried  in  his  intes- 
tines, placed  on  the  table  before  the  King  a  letter, 
and  departed,  unchallenged  and  unmolested. 

At  the  festivals,  the  minstrels  passed  before  the 
priests,  and  were  more  honorably  treated.  At 
Abingdon,  at  the  festival  of  the  Holy  Cross,  each 
of  the  twelve  priests  received  fourpence,  and  each 
of  the  twelve  minstrels  two  shillings.  At  the 
priory  of  Maxtoke,  the  custom  was  to  give  supper 

1  Welsh  etch  dyn,  "behold  your  man."  See  Stormonth's  Dic- 
tionary, s.  v.  —  TR. 


326  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

to  the  minstrels  in  the  Painted  Chamber  lighted 
by  eight  huge  wax  candles. 

As  we  advance  toward  the  North,  the  rising  fogs 
seem  to  magnify  the  poet.  In  Scotland,  his  pro- 
portions are  colossal.  If  anything  surpasses  the 
legend  of  the  rhapsodists,  it  is  the  legend  of  the 
scalds.  At  the  approach  of  Edward  of  England, 
the  bards  defend  Stirling  as  the  three  hundred  had 
defended  Sparta;  and  they  have  their  Thermopylae, 
equal  to  that  of  Leonidas.  Ossian,  perfectly  cer- 
tain and  real,  has  had  a  plagiarist.  That  is  nothing ; 
but  this  plagiarist  has  done  more  than  rob  him, — 
he  has  made  him  insipid.  To  know  Fingal  only 
through  Macpherson  is  as  if  one  knew  Amadis  only 
through  Tressan.  They  show  at  StafFa  the  poet's 
stone,  Clachan  an  Bairdh, —  so  named,  according 
to  many  antiquaries,  long  before  the  visit  of  Walter 
Scott  to  the  Hebrides.  This  Bard's  Chair,  a  great 
hollow  rock  furnishing  a  proper  seat  for  a  giant,  is 
at  the  entrance  of  the  grotto.  Around  it  are  the 
waves  and  the  clouds.  Behind  the  Clachan  an 
Bairdh  is  piled  the  superhuman  geometry  of  the 
basaltic  prisms,  the  chaos  of  colonnades  and  waves, 
and  all  the  mystery  of  that  dread  edifice.  The 
gallery  of  Fingal  runs  next  to  the  poet's  chair, 
and  there  the  sea  breaks  before  entering  beneath 
that  terrible  ceiling.  At  nightfall  the  fishermen 
of  the  Mackinnon  clan  think  they  see  in  that  chair 
a  leaning  figure.  "  It  is  the  ghost,"  they  say ;  and 
no  one  would  venture,  even  in  full  daylight,  to 
ascend  to  that  awful  seat;  for  to  the  idea  of  the 
stone  is  linked  the  idea  of  the  tomb,  and  none  but 
the  shadow-man  may  sit  upon  that  granite  chair. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  $2? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THOUGHT  is  power. 

All  power  is  duty.  Should  this  power  enter  into 
repose  in  our  age?  Should  duty  shut  its  eyes? 
and  is  the  moment  come  for  art  to  disarm?  Less 
than  ever.  Thanks  to  1789,  the  human  caravan 
has  reached  a  high  plateau  ;  and,  the  horizon  being 
vaster,  art  has  more  to  do.  This  is  all.  To  every 
widening  of  the  horizon,  an  enlargement  of  con- 
science corresponds. 

We  have  not  reached  the  goal.  Concord  con- 
densed into  felicity,  civilization  summed  up  in 
harmony,  —  that  is  yet  far  off.  In  the  eighteenth 
century  that  dream  was  so  distant  that  it  seemed 
guilty.  The  Abbe  de  St.  Pierre  was  expelled  from 
the  Academy  for  having  dreamed  that  dream,  — 
an  expulsion  which  appears  rather  severe  at  a 
period  when  pastorals  carried  the  day  even  with 
Fontenelle,  and  when  St.  Lambert  invented  the 
idyl  for  the  use  of  the  nobility.  The  Abbe"  de  St. 
Pierre  has  left  behind  him  a  word  and  a  dream; 
the  word  is  his  own,  — '  Beneficence ;  '  his  dream  is 
the  dream  of  us  all,  —  'Fraternity.'  This  dream, 
which  made  Cardinal  de  Polignac  foam,  and  Vol- 
taire smile,  is  now  less  hidden  than  it  once  was 
in  the  mist  of  the  improbable;  it  is  a  little  nearer: 
but  we  have  not  attained  it.  The  people,  those 
orphans  seeking  their  mother,  do  not  yet  hold  in 
their  hand  the  hem  of  the  robe  of  peace. 


328  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

There  remains  about  us  enough  of  slavery,  of 
sophistry,  of  war,  and  of  death,  to  make  it  essential 
that  the  spirit  of  civilization  should  relinquish  none 
of  its  resources.  The  idea  of  the  right  divine  is 
not  yet  entirely  dissipated.  The  spirit  which  ani- 
mated Ferdinand  VII.  in  Spain,  Ferdinand  II. 
in  Naples,  George  IV.  in  England,  Nicholas  in 
Russia,  is  still  in  the  air.  A  spectral  remnant 
still  flits  about.  From  that  fatal  cloud  inspira- 
tions descend  upon  wearers  of  crowns  bent  in  dark 
meditation. 

Civilization  has  not  yet  done  with  the  granters  of 
constitutions,  with  the  proprietors  of  nations,  and 
with  the  legitimate  and  hereditary  madmen  who 
assert  themselves  kings  by  the  grace  of  God,  and 
think  that  they  have  the  right  of  manumission  over 
the  human  race.  It  is  becoming  important  to  raise 
some  obstacle,  to  show  bad  will  to  the  past,  and  to 
bring  some  check  to  bear  on  these  men,  on  these 
dogmas,  on  these  chimeras  which  stand  in  the  way. 
Intelligence,  thought,  science,  austere  art,  philoso- 
phy, ought  to  watch  and  beware  of  misunderstand- 
ings. False  rights  contrive  very  easily  to  put 
actual  armies  in  the  field.  There  are  murdered 
Polands  at  the  horizon.  "All  my  anxiety/'  said 
a  contemporary  poet,  recently  deceased,  "  is  the 
smoke  of  my  cigar."  My  anxiety  is  also  a  smoke, 
—  the  smoke  of  the  cities  which  are  burning 
yonder.  Let  us,  therefore,  bring  the  tyrants  to 
grief,  if  we  can. 

Let  us  again,  in  the  loudest  possible  voice,  re- 
peat the  lesson  of  the  just  and  the  unjust,  of  right 
and  usurpation,  of  sworn  truth  and  perjury,  of 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  329 

good  and  evil,  of  fas  et  nefas ;  let  us  display  all 
our  old  antitheses,  as  they  say.  Let  us  contrast 
what  ought  to  be  with  what  actually  is.  Let  us 
dispel  all  confusion  touching  these  things.  Bring 
light,  ye  that  have  it !  Let  us  oppose  dogma  to 
dogma,  principle  to  principle,  energy  to  obstinacy, 
truth  to  imposture,  dream  to  dream,  —  the  dream 
of  the  future  to  the  dream  of  the  past, —  liberty  to 
despotism.  We  shall  be  able  to  stretch  ourselves 
at  full  length  and  smoke  out  the  cigar  of  fanciful 
poetry,  and  laugh  over  Boccaccio's  '  Decameron/ 
with  the  soft  blue  sky  over  our  heads,  on  the  day 
when  the  sovereignty  of  a  king  shall  be  exactly 
of  the  same  dimensions  as  the  liberty  of  a  man. 
Until  then,  little  sleep ;  I  am  distrustful. 

Place  sentinels  everywhere.  Do  not  expect  from 
despots  a  large  share  of  liberty.  Let  all  the  Po- 
lands  effect  their  own  deliverance.  Unlock  the 
future  with  your  own  hand.  Do  not  hope  that 
your  chain  will  forge  itself  into  the  key  of  freedom. 
Up,  children  of  the  fatherland !  O  mowers  of  the 
steppes,  arise !  Trust  to  the  good  intentions  of 
orthodox  czars  just  enough  to  take  up  arms. 
Hypocrisies  and  apologies,  being  traps,  are  an 
added  danger. 

We  live  in  a  time  when  orators  are  heard  prais- 
ing the  magnanimity  of  white  bears  and  the  tender 
feelings  of  panthers.  Amnesty,  clemency,  grandeur 
of  soul ;  an  era  of  felicity  opens ;  fatherly  love  is 
the  order  of  the  day;  behold  all  that  is  already 
done ;  it  must  not  be  thought  that  the  spirit  of  the 
time  is  not  understood ;  august  arms  are  open ; 
rally  still  closer  round  the  Emperor;  Muscovy  is 


33O  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

kind-hearted.  See  how  happy  the  serfs  are !  the 
streams  are  to  flow  with  milk,  prosperity,  liberty 
for  all;  your  princes  groan,  like  you,  over  the 
past ;  they  are  excellent.  Come,  fear  nothing,  little 
ones !  All  very  good ;  but  candidly,  we  are  of 
those  who  put  no  faith  in  the  lachrymal  gland  of 
crocodiles. 

The  reigning  public  monstrosities  impose  stern 
obligations  on  the  conscience  of  the  thinker,  the 
philosopher,  or  the  poet.  Incorruptibility  must 
resist  corruption.  It  is  more  than  ever  requisite 
to  show  men  the  ideal, — that  mirror  reflecting  the 
face  of  God. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  literature  and  philosophy  we  encounter  now 
and  then  a  man  with  tears  and  laughter  at  com- 
mand, —  Heraclitus  masked  as  Democritus ;  often 
a  very  great  man  like  Voltaire.  Such  a  man  is 
an  irony,  sometimes  tragic,  which  keeps  its  coun- 
tenance. 

These  men,  under  the  pressure  of  the  influences 
and  prejudices  of  their  time,  speak  with  a  double 
meaning.  One  of  the  most  profound  is  Bayle,  the 
man  of  Rotterdam,  the  powerful  thinker.  (Do  not 
write  Beyle.)  When  Bayle  coolly  utters  this  max- 
im :  "  It  is  better  to  weaken  the  grace  of  a  thought 
than  to  anger  a  tyrant,"  I  smile,  for  I  know  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  331 

man  ;  I  think  of  him  persecuted,  almost  proscribed, 
and  I  know  well  that  he  has  given  way  to  the  temp- 
tation of  affirming  merely  to  give  me  the  itch  of 
contradiction.  But  when  it  is  a  poet  who  speaks, 
a  poet  wholly  free,  rich,  happy,  prosperous,  invio- 
lable, one  expects  clear,  frank,  and  wholesome 
instruction ;  one  cannot  believe  that  such  a  man 
can  be  guilty  of  anything  like  desertion  of  con- 
science ;  and  it  is  with  a  blush  that  one  reads  this : 
"  Here  below,  in  time  of  peace,  let  every  man  sweep 
before  his  own  door.  In  war,  if  conquered,  one 
must  make  terms  with  the  enemy.  .  .  .  Let  every 
enthusiast  be  put  on  a  cross  when  he  reaches  his 
thirtieth  year.  When  once  he  comes  to  know  the 
world,  he  ceases  to  be  a  dupe,  and  becomes  a 
rogue.  .  .  .  What  utility,  what  result,  what  ad- 
vantage does  the  holy  liberty  of  the  press  offer 
you?  You  have  the  certain  demonstration  of  it, 
—  a  profound  contempt  for  public  opinion.  .  .  . 
There  are  people  who  have  a  mania  for  railing 
at  everything  that  is  great;  they  are  men  who 
have  attacked  the  Holy  Alliance :  and  yet  nothing 
has  been  invented  more  august  and  more  salutary 
for  humanity."  These  things,  belittling  to  the  man 
who  wrote  them,  are  signed  Goethe.  When  he 
wrote  them,  Goethe  was  sixty  years  old.  Indif- 
ference to  good  and  evil  is  heady,  liable  to  intoxi- 
cate ;  and  this  is  what  comes  of  it.  The  lesson  is 
sad,  the  sight  mournful;  for  here  the  helot  is  an 
intelligence. 

A  quotation  may  be  a  pillory.  We  post  on  the 
public  highway  these  lugubrious  sentences ;  it  is 
our  duty.  Goethe  wrote  that.  Let  it  be  remem- 


332  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

bered,  and  let  no  one  among  the  poets  fall  again 
into  the  same  error.1 

To  become  impassioned  for  the  good,  for  the 
true,  for  the  just;  to  suffer  with  the  sufferers;  to 
feel  upon  one's  soul  all  the  strokes  inflicted  by 
tormentors  upon  human  flesh  ;  to  be  scourged  with 
Christ  and  flogged  with  the  negro ;  to  be  strength- 
ened and  to  lament;  to  scale,  a  Titan,  that  frowning 
summit  where  Peter  and  Caesar  make  their  swords 
fraternize,  gladium  cum  gladio  copulemus ;  to  pile 
for  that  escalade  the  Ossa  of  the  ideal  on  the 
Pelion  of  the  real ;  to  make  a  vast  apportionment 
of  hope ;  to  avail  one's  self  of  the  ubiquity  of  the 
book  in  order  to  be  everywhere  at  the  same  time 
with  a  consoling  thought ;  to  push  pell-mell  men, 
women,  children,  whites,  blacks,  peoples,  hangmen, 
tyrants,  victims,  impostors,  the  ignorant,  proletaries, 
serfs,  slaves,  masters,  toward  the  future  (a  preci- 
pice to  some,  to  others  a  deliverance)  ;  to  go  forth, 
to  awaken,  to  hasten,  to  march,  to  run,  to  think, 

1  Never  having  known  the  real  Goethe,  Victor  Hugo  never 
could  do  justice  to  him ;  and  possibly  the  relation  would  not  have 
been  improved  by  better  acquaintance.  The  character  and  works 
that  we  call  "  Goethe  "  make  up  an  exceedingly  complex  whole ;  to 
condemn  it  is  akin  to  condemning  an  entire  civilization.  Burke 
professed  himself  unable  to  draw  up  an  indictment  against  a  whole 
nation  ;  and  in  Goethe's  case  any  one  broadly  acquainted  with  the 
facts  would  probably  find  the  task  almost  equally  awkward.  Hith- 
erto, at  least,  it  is  observable  that  the  severe  judgments  have  not 
emanated  from  the  most  patient  and  competent  investigators.  It 
would  be  lamentable  indeed  should  sensible  people  be  misled,  by 
the  garbled  scraps  here  cited,  into  hasty  prejudgment  of  him 
whose  spirit  and  work  are  so  much  more  accurately  indicated  by 
this  line  of  his,  — 

"  Wouldst  thou  give  freedom  to  many,  first  dare  to  do  service  to  many." 

—  TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  333 

to  will,  —  that  is  indeed  well ;  that  makes  it  worth 
while  to  be  a  poet.  Take  care !  You  are  losing 
your  temper.  Certainly,  but  I  am  gaining  wrath. 
And  now  for  thy  blast  in  my  pinions,  O  hurricane  ! 

There  was,  of  late  years,  a  moment  when  impas- 
sibility was  recommended  to  poets  as  a  condition 
of  divinity.  To  be  indifferent  was  called  being 
Olympian.  Where  had  they  seen  that?  That  is 
an  Olympus  very  unlike  the  real  one.  Read 
Homer.  The  Olympians  are  passion,  and  nothing 
else.  Boundless  humanity,  —  such  is  their  divinity. 
They  fight  incessantly.  One  has  a  bow,  another 
a  lance,  another  a  sword,  another  a  club,  another 
thunderbolts.  One  of  them  compels  the  leopards 
to  draw  him.  Another  —  Wisdom  she  —  has  cut 
off  the  serpent-bristling  head  of  Night,  and  nailed  it 
to  her  shield.  Such  is  the  calm  of  the  Olympians. 
Their  wraths  cause  the  thunders  to  roll  from  end 
to  end  of  the  Iliad  and  of  the  Odyssey.  These 
wraths,  when  just,  are  good.  The  poet  who  has 
them  is  the  true  Olympian.  Juvenal,  Dante, 
Agrippa  d'Aubigne",  and  Milton  were  subject  to 
these  wraths,  Moliere  too.  From  the  soul  of 
Alceste  flashes  constantly  the  lightning  of  "  vig- 
orous hatreds."  It  was  the  hatred  of  evil  which 
Jesus  meant  when  he  said,  "  I  am  come  to  bring 
war." 

I  like  Stesichorus,  indignant,  preventing  the  alli- 
ance of  Greece  with  Phalaris,  and  fighting  the 
brazen  bull  with  strokes  of  the  lyre. 

Louis  XIV.  found  it  good  to  have  Racine  sleep- 
ing in  his  chamber  when  he,  the  King,  was  ill,  — thus 
turning  the  poet  into  an  assistant  to  his  apothe- 


334  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

cary.  Wonderful  patronage  of  letters !  But  he 
asked  nothing  more  from  the  men  of  letters,  and 
the  horizon  of  his  alcove  seemed  to  him  sufficient 
for  them.  One  day  Racine,  somewhat  urged  by 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  conceived  the  thought  of 
leaving  the  King's  chamber  and  of  visiting  the 
garrets  of  the  people.  Thence  a  memoir  on  the 
public  distress.  Louis  XIV.  cast  at  Racine  a  kill- 
ing look.  Poets  fare  ill  when,  being  courtiers,  they 
do  what  royal  mistresses  ask  of  them.  Racine, 
at  the  suggestion  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  risks 
a  remonstrance  which  causes  him  to  be  driven 
from  court,  and  he  dies  of  it;  Voltaire,  at  the  in- 
stigation of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  ventures  a 
madrigal,  —  an  awkward  one,  it  appears, — which 
causes  him  to  be  driven  from  France,  and  he  does 
not  die  of  it.  Louis  XV.  on  reading  the  madrigal 
("Etgardez  tous  deux  vos  conquetes  ")  had  ex- 
claimed, "  What  a  fool  this  Voltaire  is  !  " 

Some  years  ago  "  a  well-authorized  pen,"  as 
they  say  in  official  and  academic  cant,  wrote  this : 
"  The  greatest  service  that  poets  can  render  us  is 
to  be  good  for  nothing.  We  ask  of  them  nothing 
else."  Observe  the  scope  and  sweep  of  this  word, 
—  "the  poets," — which  includes  Linus,  Musaeus, 
Orpheus,  Homer,  Job,  Hesiod,  Moses,  Daniel, 
Amos,  Ezekiel,  Isaiah,  Jeremiah,  ^Esop,  David, 
Solomon,  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  Euripides,  Pin- 
dar, Archilochus,  Tyrtaeus,  Stesichorus,  Menander, 
Plato,  Asclepiades,  Pythagoras,  Anacreon,  Theoc- 
ritus, Lucretius,  Plautus,  Terence,  Virgil,  Horace, 
Catullus,  Juvenal,  Apuleius,  Lucan,  Persius,  Ti- 
bullus,  Seneca,  Petrarch,  Ossian,  Saadi,  Firdusi, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  335 

Dante,  Cervantes,  Calderon,  Lope  de  Vega,  Chau- 
cer, Shakespeare,  Camoens,  Marot,  Ronsard,  Reg- 
nier,  Agrippa  d'Aubigne,  Malherbe,  Segrais,  Racan, 
Milton,  Pierre  Corneille,  Moliere,  Racine,  Boileau, 
La  Fontaine,  Fontenelle,  Regnard,  Lesage,  Swift, 
Voltaire,  Diderot,  Beaumarchais,  Sedaine,  Jean- 
Jacques  Rousseau,  Andre  Chenier,  Klopstock,  Les- 
sing,  Wieland,  Schiller,  Goethe,  Hofmann,  Alfieri, 
Chateaubriand,  Byron,  Shelley,  Wordsworth,  Burns, 
Walter  Scott,  Balzac,  Musset,  Beranger,  Pellico, 
Vigny,  Dumas,  George  Sand,  Lamartine,  —  all 
declared  by  the  oracle  "  good  for  nothing,"  and 
having  uselessness  for  their  excellence.  That  sen- 
tence—  a  "  success,"  it  appears  —  has  been  very 
often  repeated.  We  repeat  it  in  our  turn.  When 
the  conceit  of  an  idiot  reaches  such  proportions,  it 
deserves  registration.  The  writer  who  uttered 
that  aphorism  is,  so  they  assure  us,  one  of  the 
high  personages  of  the  day.  Wre  have  no  objec- 
tion ;  dignities  shorten  no  ears. 

Octavius  Augustus,  on  the  morning  of  the  battle 
of  Actium,  met  an  ass  called  by  its  driver  "  Tri- 
umphus."  This  Triumphus,  endowed  with  the 
faculty  of  braying,  seemed  to  him  of  good  omen. 
Octavius  Augustus  won  the  battle ;  and  remem- 
bering Triumphus,  had  him  cast  in  bronze  and  set 
up  in  the  Capitol.  That  made  a  Capitoline  ass; 
but  still  —  an  ass. 

One  can  understand  kings  saying  to  the  poet, 
"  Be  useless ;  "  but  one  does  not  understand  the  peo- 
ple saying  so  to  him.  The  poet  is  for  the  people. 
"  Pro  populo  poe'ta,"  wrote  Agrippa  d'Aubigne". 
"  All  things  to  all  men,"  exclaims  Saint  Paul. 


336  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

What  is  an  intelligence?  A  feeder  of  souls.  The 
poet  is  at  the  same  time  a  menace  and  a  promise. 
The  distress  he  arouses  in  oppressors  calms  and 
consoles  the  oppressed.  It  is  the  glory  of  the 
poet  to  place  a  restless  pillow  on  the  purple  bed 
of  the  tormentors.  It  is  often  thanks  to  him  that 
the  tyrant  awakes,  saying,  "  I  have  slept  badly." 
Every  slave,  every  despondency,  every  sorrow, 
every  misfortune,  every  distress,  every  hunger, 
and  every  thirst  has  a  claim  upon  the  poet;  he 
has  one  creditor,  —  the  human  race. 

Certainly  it  detracts  nothing  from  the  poet  to  be 
the  great  servant.  All  the  mysterious  voices  sing 
within  him  none  the  less  because  upon  occasion, 
and  impelled  by  duty,  he  has  uttered  the  cry  of  a 
race,  because  his  bosom  must  needs  swell  with 
the  deep  human  sob.  Speaking  so  loudly  does 
not  prevent  his  speaking  low.  He  is  not  less  the 
confidant,  and  sometimes  the  confessor,  of  hearts. 
He  is  not  less  intimately  connected  with  those  who 
love,  with  those  who  think,  with  those  who  sigh, 
thrusting  his  head  in  the  darkness  between  the 
heads  of  lovers.  Andre  Chenier's  love-verses  are 
deprived  of  none  of  their  tender  serenity  by  their 
proximity  to  the  wrathful  iambic :  "  Weep  thou, 
O  virtue,  if  I  die !  "  The  poet  is  the  only  living 
being  to  whom  is  given  both  the  voice  of  thunder 
and  the  whisper,  having,  like  Nature,  within  himself 
the  rumbling  of  the  cloud  and  the  rustling  of  the 
leaf.  This  is  a  double  function,  individual  and 
public;  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  he  needs,  as 
it  were,  two  souls. 

Ennius  said,  "  I  have  three  of  them,  —  an  Oscan 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  337 

soul,  a  Greek  soul,  and  a  Latin  soul."  It  is  true 
that  he  referred  only  to  the  place  of  his  birth,  to 
the  place  of  his  education,  and  to  the  place  where 
he  was  a  citizen ;  and  moreover  Ennius  was  but  a 
rough  cast  of  a  poet,  vast,  but  shapeless. 

No  poet  can  exist  without  that  activity  of  soul 
which  is  the  resultant  of  conscience.  The  primal 
moral  laws  need  to  be  confirmed ;  the  new  moral 
laws  need  to  be  revealed :  these  two  series  do  not 
coincide  without  some  effort.  This  effort  is  in- 
cumbent on  the  poet.  At  every  turn  he  performs 
the  function  of  the  philosopher.  He  must  defend, 
according  to  the  side  attacked,  now  the  liberty  of 
the  human  mind,  now  the  liberty  of  the  human 
heart, —  to  love  being  no  less  holy  than  to  think. 
There  is  nothing  in  all  that  of  "  Art  for  art's  sake." 

Into  the  midst  of  those  goers  and  comers  that 
we  call  the  living,  comes  the  poet,  to  tame,  like 
ancient  Orpheus,  the  tiger  in  man,  —  his  evil  in- 
stincts,—  and,  like  legendary  Amphion,  to  pull  down 
the  walls  of  prejudice  and  superstition,  to  mount 
the  new  blocks,  to  relay  the  foundations  and  the 
corner-stones,  and  to  build  anew  the  city  of  human 
society. 

That  such  a  service,  — to  co-operate  in  the  work 
of  civilization,  —  should  involve  loss  of  beauty  for 
poetry  and  of  dignity  for  the  poet,  is  a  propo- 
sition which  one  cannot  enunciate  without  smiling. 
Useful  art  preserves  and  augments  all  its  graces, 
all  its  charms,  all  its  prestige.  In  truth  ^Eschylus 
is  not  degraded  by  taking  part  with  Prometheus, 
the  man  progress  crucified  by  force  on  Caucasus, 
and  gnawed  alive  by  hate;  Lucretius  is  no  less 

22 


338  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

great  for  having  loosened  the  grave-clothes  of 
idolatry  and  disentangled  human  thought  from  the 
knotted  bonds  of  religions  (arctis  nodis  religionum) ; 
the  branding  of  tyrants  with  the  red-hot  iron  of 
prophecy  does  not  lessen  Isaiah;  the  defence  of 
his  country  does  not  taint  Tyrtaeus.  The  beautiful 
is  not  degraded  by  serving  the  ends  of  freedom 
and  the  amelioration  of  the  human  multitudes. 
The  words,  "  a  people  liberated,"  would  fitly  end 
a  strophe.  No,  patriotic  or  revolutionary  useful- 
ness robs  poetry  of  nothing.  For  having  screened 
under  its  cliffs  the  three  peasants  who  took  the 
terrible  oath  from  which  sprang  Switzerland  free, 
the  huge  Griitli  is  none  the  less  at  nightfall  a  lofty 
mass  of  serene  shadow  alive  with  herds,  whence 
falls  afar  the  soft  tintinnabulation  of  innumera- 
ble little  bells  tinkling  unseen  through  the  clear 
twilight  air. 


PART  III. 
CONCLUSION. 


PART    THIRD. 

CONCLUSION. 


BOOK     I. 

AFTER   DEATH.  -  SHAKESPEARE.  —  ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER   I. 

IN  1784,  Bonaparte,  then  fifteen  years  old,  arrived 
at  the  military  school  of  Paris  from  Brienne, 
being  one  among  four  under  the  conduct  of  a 
minim  priest.  He  mounted  one  hundred  and 
seventy-three  steps,  carrying  his  small  valise,  and 
reached,  in  the  attic,  the  barrack  chamber  he  was 
to  occupy.  This  chamber  had  two  beds,  and  a 
small  window  opening  on  the  great  yard  of  the 
school.  The  young  predecessors  of  Bonaparte  had 
bescrawled  the  whitewashed  wall  with  charcoal,  and 
the  new-comer  could  read  in  this  little  cell  these 
four  inscriptions,  which  we  ourselves  read  there 
thirty-five  years  ago :  "  An  epaulet  is  very  long  to 
win."  —  De  Montgivray.  "The  finest  day  in  life 
is  that  of  a  battle."  —  Vicomte  de  Tinteniac.  "  Life 
is  but  a  prolonged  lie."  —  Le  Chevalier  Adolphe 
Delmas.  "  The  end  of  all  is  six  feet  of  earth."  — 


342  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Le  Comte  de  la  Villette.  With  the  trifling  substitu- 
tion of  the  word  "  empire  "  for  "  epaulet,"  these 
four  sentences  contained  the  whole  destiny  of 
Bonaparte,  and  formed  a  kind  of  "  Mene,  Tekel, 
Upharsin,"  written  in  advance  upon  that  wall. 
Desmazis,  junior,  who  accompanied  Bonaparte, 
being  his  room-mate,  and  about  to  occupy  one  of 
the  two  beds,  saw  him  take  a  pencil  —  Desmazis 
himself  has  related  the  incident —  and  draw,  under 
the  inscriptions  that  he  had  just  read,  a  rough 
sketch  of  his  house  at  Ajaccio ;  then,  by  the  side 
of  that  house,  —  without  suspecting  that  he  was 
thus  bringing  near  the  Island  of  Corsica  another 
mysterious  island  then  hid  in  the  far  future,  —  he 
wrote  the  last  of  the  four  sentences :  "  The  end  of 
all  is  six  feet  of  earth." 

Bonaparte  was  right.  For  the  conqueror,  for 
the  soldier,  for  the  man  of  material  fact,  the  end  of 
all  is  six  feet  of  earth ;  for  the  man  of  thought,  all 
begins  there. 

Death  is  a  power. 

For  him  who  has  had  no  activity  but  that  of  the 
mind,  the  tomb  is  the  elimination  of  the  obstacle. 
To  be  dead  is  to  be  all-powerful. 

The  man  of  war  is  formidable  while  alive ;  he 
stands  erect;  the  earth  is  silent,  siluit ;  he  has 
extermination  in  his  gesture ;  millions  of  haggard 
men  rush  after  him,  a  fierce  horde,  sometimes  a 
ruffianly  one ;  it  is  no  longer  a  human  head,  it  is  a 
conqueror,  it  is  a  captain,  it  is  a  king  of  kings,  it  is 
an  emperor,  it  is  a  dazzling  crown  of  laurels  which 
passes,  throwing  out  lightning  flashes,  and  showing, 
in  a  starry  light  beneath,  a  vague  profile  of  Caesar. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  343 

This  vision  is  splendid  and  astounding;  but  a  little 
gravel  in  the  liver,  or  an  abrasion  of  the  pylorus, 
—  six  feet  of  earth,  and  all  is  over.  This  solar 
spectrum  vanishes.  This  tumultuous  life  falls  into 
a  hole;  the  human  race  pursues  its  way,  leaving 
behind  this  emptiness.  If  this  man-hurricane  has 
made  some  lucky  rupture,  —  like  Alexander  in 
India,  Charlemagne  in  Scandinavia,  and  Bonaparte 
in  old  Europe,  —  that  is  all  that  remains  of  him. 
But  let  some  passer-by  who  has  in  him  the  ideal ; 
let  a  poor  wretch  like  Homer  throw  out  a  word 
in  the  darkness,  and  die,  —  that  word  lights  up 
the  gloom,  and  becomes  a  star. 

This  defeated  man,  driven  from  town  to  town,  is 
called  Dante  Alighieri,  —  take  care  !  This  exile  is 
called  yEschylus,  this  prisoner  is  called  Ezekiel,  — 
beware  !  This  one-handed  man  is  winged,  —  it 
is  Miguel  Cervantes.  Do  you  know  whom  you  see 
wayfaring  there  before  you?  It  is  a  sick  man, 
Tyrtaeus;  it  is  a  slave,  Plautus;  it  is  a  laborer, 
Spinoza;  it  is  a  valet,  Rousseau.  Well,  that 
abasement,  that  labor,  that  servitude,  that  infirm- 
ity, is  power,  —  the  supreme  power,  mind. 

On  the  dunghill  like  Job,  under  the  stick  like 
Epictetus,  under  contempt  like  Moliere,  mind  re- 
mains mind.  It  is  destined  to  have  the  last  word. 
The  Caliph  Almanzor  makes  the  people  spit  on 
Averroes  at  the  door  of  the  mosque  of  Cordova; 
the  Duke  of  York  himself  spits  on  Milton;  a 
Rohan,  almost  a  prince,  "  Due  ne  daigne,  Rohan 
suis," 1  attempts  to  cudgel  Voltaire  to  death ; 
Descartes  is  driven  from  France  in  the  name  of 

1  "  I  would  not  stoop  to  be  a  duke  ;  I  am  Rohan."  —  TR. 


344  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Aristotle;  Tasso  pays  for  a  kiss  given  a  princess 
by  twenty  years  in  a  prison  cell ;  Louis  XV.  sends 
Diderot  to  Vincennes :  these  are  mere  incidents ; 
must  there  not  be  some  clouds?  Those  appear- 
ances that  were  taken  for  realities,  those  princes, 
those  kings,  melt  away ;  there  remains  only  what 
should  remain,  —  the  human  mind  on  the  one  side, 
the  divine  minds  on  the  other ;  the  true  work  and 
the  true  workers ;  society  to  be  perfected  and  made 
fruitful,  science  seeking  the  true,  art  creating  the 
beautiful,  the  thirst  of  thought,  —  the  torment  and 
the  happiness  of  man;  the  lower  life  aspiring  to 
the  higher.  Real  questions  are  to  be  dealt  with ; 
progress  in  intelligence  and  by  intelligence  is  to  be 
secured.  The  aid  of  the  poets,  the  prophets,  the 
philosophers,  the  inspired  thinkers  is  invoked.  It 
is  perceived  that  philosophy  is  a  nourishment,  and 
poetry  a  need.  Man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone. 
Give  up  the  poets,  and  you  give  up  civilization. 
There  comes  an  hour  when  the  human  race  is  com- 
pelled to  reckon  with  Shakespeare  the  actor,  and 
with  Isaiah  the  beggar. 

They  are  the  more  present  when  they  are  no 
longer  seen.  Once  dead,  these  beings  live. 

What  life  did  they  lead?  What  kind  of  men 
were  they?  What  do  we  know  of  them?  Some- 
times but  little,  as  of  Shakespeare ;  often  nothing, 
as  of  those  of  ancient  days.  Did  Job  exist?  Is 
Homer  one,  or  several  ?  Meziriac  makes  ^Esop 
straight,  and  Planudes  makes  him  a  hunchback. 
Is  it  true  that  the  prophet  Hosea,  in  order  to  show 
his  love  for  his  country,  even  when  she  was  fallen 
into  opprobrium  and  infamy,  espoused  a  harlot, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  345 

and  named  his  children  Mourning,  Famine,  Shame, 
Pestilence,  and  Misery?  Is  it  true  that  Hesiod 
must  be  divided  between  Cyme  in  ^Eolis,  where 
he  was  born,  and  Ascra  in  Bceotia,  where  he  is 
said  to  have  been  brought  up?  Velleius  Paterculus 
places  him  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  after 
Homer,  with  whom  Quintilian  makes  him  con- 
temporary. Which  of  the  two  is  right?  What 
matters  it?  The  poets  being  dead,  their  thought 
reigns.  Having  been,  they  are. 

They  do  more  work  among  us  to-day  than  when 
they  were  alive.  Others  who  have  departed  this 
life  rest  from  their  labors:  dead  men  of  genius 
work. 

They  work  upon  what?  Upon  minds.  They 
make  civilization. 

The  end  of  all  is  six  feet  of  earth  ?  No ;  there  all 
begins,  germinates,  flowers,  grows,  issues,  streams 
forth.  Such  maxims  are  very  well  for  you,  O  men 
of  the  sword ! 

Lay  yourselves  down,  disappear,  lie  in  the  grave, 
rot.  So  be  it. 

While  life  lasts,  gilding,  caparisons,  drums  and 
trumpets,  panoplies,  banners  in  the  wind,  tumults, 
delude  the  senses.  The  crowd  gazes  with  admi- 
ration on  these  things.  It  imagines  that  it  sees 
something  grand.  Who  wears  the  casque?  Who 
the  cuirass?  Who  the  sword-belt?  Who  is  spurred, 
helmeted,  plumed,  armed  ?  Hurrah  for  that  one  ! 
At  death  the  difference  becomes  plain.  Juvenal 
takes  Hannibal  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

It  is  not  Caesar,  it  is  the  thinker,  who  can  say 
when  he  expires,  "  Deus  fio."  So  long  as  he 


346  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

remains  a  man,  his  flesh  interposes  between  other 
men  and  him.  The  flesh  is  a  cloud  upon  genius. 
Death,  that  immense  light,  comes  and  penetrates 
the  man  with  its  aurora.  No  more  flesh,  no  more 
matter,  no  more  shadow.  The  unknown  which  was 
within  him  manifests  itself  and  beams  forth.  In 
order  that  a  mind  may  give  all  its  light,  death  is 
required.  When  that  which  was  a  genius  becomes 
a  soul,  the  human  race  begins  to  be  dazzled.  A 
book  within  which  there  is  something  of  the  phan- 
tom is  irresistible. 

He  who  is  still  living  does  not  appear  disinter- 
ested. People  mistrust  him.  People  dispute  him 
because  they  jostle  against  him.  Both  to  be  alive 
and  to  be  a  genius  is  too  much.  This  being  goes 
and  comes  as  you  do ;  it  walks  the  earth ;  it  has 
weight;  it  casts  a  shadow;  it  obstructs.  There 
seems  a  kind  of  importunity  in  the  presence  of  too 
great  a  man;  men  find  him  not  sufficiently  like 
themselves.  As  we  have  said  before,  they  owe 
him  a  grudge.  Who  is  this  privileged  person? 
This  functionary  cannot  be  dismissed.  Persecu- 
tion makes  him  greater,  decapitation  crowns  him. 
Nothing  can  be  done  against  him,  nothing  for  him, 
nothing  with  him.  He  is  responsible,  but  not  to 
you.  He  has  his  instructions.  What  he  executes 
may  be  discussed,  not  modified.  It  seems  as 
though  he  had  a  mission  to  accomplish  from 
some  one  who  is  not  a  man.  Such  an  exception 
displeases ;  hence  more  hisses  than  applause. 

Once  dead,  he  is  out  of  the  way.  The  useless 
hiss  dies  out.  Living,  he  was  a  rival ;  dead,  he  is 
a  benefactor.  He  becomes,  in  the  beautiful  ex- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  347 

pression  of  Lebrun,  "  the  irreparable  man."  Lebrun 
says  this  of  Montesquieu ;  Boileau  says  the  same 
thing  of  Moliere.  "  Avant  qu'un  peu  de  terre," 
etc.1  This  handful  of  earth  has  equally  exalted 
Voltaire.  Voltaire,  so  great  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, is  still  greater  in  the  nineteenth.  The  grave 
is  a  crucible.  The  earth  thrown  on  a  man  cleanses 
his  name,  and  allows  it  not  to  pass  forth  till  puri- 
fied. Voltaire  has  lost  his  false  glory  and  retained 
the  true.  To  lose  the  false  is  gain.  Voltaire  is 
neither  a  lyric  poet,  nor  a  comic  poet,  nor  a  tragic 
poet;  he  is  the  indignant  yet  tender  critic  of  the 
Old  World ;  he  is  the  mild  reformer  of  manners ; 
he  is  the  man  who  softens  men.  Voltaire,  having 
lost  ground  as  a  poet,  has  risen  as  an  apostle.  He 
has  done  what  is  good  rather  than  what  is  beautiful. 
The  good  being  included  in  the  beautiful,  those 
who,  like  Dante  and  Shakespeare,  have  produced 
the  beautiful,  surpass  Voltaire ;  but  below  the  poet, 
the  place  of  the  philosopher  is  still  very  high,  and 
Voltaire  is  the  philosopher.  Voltaire  is  good-sense 
in  a  continual  stream.  Excepting  literature,  he  is  a 
good  judge  of  everything.  In  spite  of  his  insulters, 
Voltaire  was  almost  adored  during  his  lifetime; 
to-day  he  is,  on  thoroughly  valid  grounds,  admired. 
The  eighteenth  century  saw  his  mind;  we  see  his 
soul.  Frederick  II.,  who  liked  to  banter  him,  wrote 

1  Part  of  the  nineteenth  line  of  Boileau's  seventh  epistle,  which 
is  dedicated  to  Racine.  The  whole  sentence  may  be  roughly  ren- 
dered as  follows :  — 

"  Before  a  little  earth,  obtained  by  intercession, 
Had  forever  hidden  Moliere  from  human  sight, 
A  thousand  of  those  beauties,  so  highly  praised  to-day, 
Were  by  silly  people  rejected  before  our  very  eyes." 

—  TR. 


348  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

to  D'Alembert:  "  Voltaire  plays  the  buffoon.  This 
century  resembles  the  old  courts ;  it  has  its  fool, 
and  Arouet  is  he."  This  fool  of  the  century  was 
its  sage. 

Such,  for  great  minds,  are  the  issues  of  the  tomb. 
That  mysterious  entrance  otherwhere  leaves  light 
behind.  Their  setting  is  resplendent.  Death  makes 
their  authority  free  and  effective. 


CHAPTER  II. 

SHAKESPEARE  is  the  chief  glory  of  England. 
England  has  in  politics,  Cromwell ;  in  philosophy, 
Bacon;  in  science,  Newton:  three  lofty  men  of 
genius.  But  Cromwell  is  stained  with  cruelty,  and 
Bacon  with  meanness;  as  to  Newton,  his  edifice 
is  at  this  moment  tottering.  Shakespeare  is  pure, 
as  Cromwell  and  Bacon  are  not,  and  unshaken,  as 
Newton  is  not  Moreover,  his  genius  is  loftier. 
Above  Newton  are  Copernicus  and  Galileo ;  above 
Bacon  are  Descartes  and  Kant;  above  Cromwell 
are  Danton  and  Bonaparte ;  above  Shakespeare 
there  is  no  one.  Shakespeare  has  equals,  but  no 
superior.  It  is  a  singular  honor  for  a  land  to  have 
borne  such  a  man.  One  may  say  to  that  land, 
Alma  par  ens  !  The  native  town  of  Shakespeare  is 
a  chosen  city ;  an  eternal  light  falls  on  that  cradle ; 
Stratford-on-Avon  has  a  security  that  Smyrna, 
Rhodes,  Colophon,  Salamis,  Chios,  Argos,  and 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  349 

Athens,  the  seven  towns  which  dispute  the  birth- 
place of  Homer,  do  not  possess. 

Shakespeare  is  a  human  mind;  he  is  also  an 
English  mind.  He  is  very  English — too  English; 
he  is  English  so  far  as  to  subdue  the  horror  sur- 
rounding the  abominable  kings  whom  he  places 
on  the  stage,  —  when  they  are  kings  of  England ; 
so  far  as  to  depreciate  Philip  Augustus  in  com- 
parison with  John  Lackland ;  so  far  as  to  make  a 
scapegoat,  Falstaff,  expressly  in  order  to  load  him 
with  the  princely  misdeeds  of  the  young  Henry  V. ; 
so  far  as  in  a  certain  measure  to  share  the  hypoc- 
risies of  a  history  alleged  to  be  national.  Lastly, 
he  is  English  so  far  as  to  attempt  to  exculpate 
Henry  VIII. ;  it  is  true  that  the  eye  of  Elizabeth  is 
fixed  upon  him.  But  at  the  same  time  we  insist, 
—  for  therein  consists  his  greatness,  —  this  English 
poet  is  a  humane  genius.  Art,  like  religion,  has 
its  Ecce  Homo.  Shakespeare  is  one  of  those  to 
whom  may  be  applied  the  noble  name  of  Man. 

England  is  selfish :  selfishness  is  an  island.  This 
Albion,  who  minds  her  own  business  and  is  apt  to 
be  eyed  askance  by  other  nations,  is  a  little  lacking 
in  disinterested  greatness;  of  this,  Shakespeare 
gives  her  some  portion.  With  that  purple  robe 
he  drapes  his  country's  shoulders.  By  his  fame 
he  is  universal  and  cosmopolitan.  He  overflows 
island  and  egotism  on  every  side.  Deprive  Eng- 
land of  Shakespeare,  and  consider  how  soon  this 
nation's  far-shining  light  would  fade.  Shakespeare 
modifies  the  English  countenance  and  makes  it 
beautiful.  He  lessens  the  resemblance  of  England 
to  Carthage. 


350  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Strange  meaning  of  the  apparition  of  men  of 
genius !  No  great  poet  is  borne  at  Sparta,  no 
great  poet  at  Carthage.  This  condemns  these  two 
cities.  Search,  and  you  shall  find  this :  Sparta  is 
but  the  city  of  logic ;  Carthage  is  but  the  city  of 
matter ;  love  is  wanting  to  both.  Carthage  immo- 
lates her  children  by  the  sword,  and  Sparta  sacri- 
fices her  virgins  by  nudity;  here  innocence  is 
killed,  and  there  modesty.  Carthage  knows  only 
her  crates  and  bales ;  Sparta  blends  herself  wholly 
with  the  law,  —  there  is  her  true  territory :  it  is  for 
the  laws  that  her  men  die  at  Thermopylae.  Carth- 
age is  hard,  Sparta  is  cold.  They  are  two  republics 
based  on  stone.  Therefore  no  books.  The  eter- 
nal sower,  who  is  never  deceived,  has  scattered 
none  of  the  seed  of  genius  on  their  thankless  soil. 
Such  wheat  is  not  to  be  confided  to  the  rock. 

Heroism,  however,  is  not  denied  to  them;  they 
will  have,  if  necessary,  either  the  martyr  or  the 
captain.  Leonidas  is  possible  for  Sparta,  Han- 
nibal for  Carthage ;  but  neither  Sparta  nor  Carthage 
is  capable  of  Homer.  They  are  devoid  of  a  certain 
sublime  tenderness  which  makes  the  poet  spring 
from  the  loins  of  a  people.  This  latent  tenderness, 
this  flebile  nescio  quid,  England  possesses,  —  wit- 
ness Shakespeare;  one  might  also  add,  witness 
Wilberforce. 

England,  mercantile  like  Carthage,  legal  like 
Sparta,  is  better  than  Sparta  and  Carthage.  She 
is  honored  by  that  august  exception,  a  poet;  to 
have  given  birth  to  Shakespeare  makes  England 
great. 

Shakespeare's  place  is  among  the  most  sublime 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  351 

in  that  select  company  of  absolute  intelligences 
who,  ever  and  anon  reinforced  by  some  noble 
newcomer,  form  the  crown  of  civilization,  lighting 
the  human  race  with  a  wide  radiance.  Shake- 
speare is  legion.  Alone,  he  forms  the  counter- 
poise to  our  grand  French  seventeenth  century, 
and  almost  to  the  eighteenth. 

When  one  arrives  in  England,  the  first  thing  the 
eye  seeks  is  the  statue  of  Shakespeare;  it  falls 
upon  the  statue  of  Wellington. 

Wellington  is  a  general  who,  in  collaboration 
with  chance,  gained  a  battle. 

If  you  insist,  you  are  taken  to  a  place  called 
Westminster,  where  there  are  kings,  —  a  crowd 
of  kings ;  there  is  also  a  nook  called  "  The  Poets' 
Corner."  There,  in  the  shade  of  four  or  five  mag- 
nificent monuments  where  some  royal  nobodies 
shine  in  marble  and  bronze,  you  are  shown  a 
statuette  upon  a  little  bracket,  and  beneath  this 
statuette  the  name, ,"  William  Shakespeare." 

Furthermore,  there  are  statues  everywhere, — 
statues  to  the  heart's  content.  Statue  of  Charles, 
statue  of  Edward,  statue  of  William,  statues  of 
three  or  four  Georges,  of  whom  one  was  an  idiot. 
Statue  of  the  Duke  of  Richmond  at  Huntley; 
statue  of  Napier  at  Portsmouth ;  statue  of  Father 
Mathew  at  Cork ;  statue  of  Herbert  Ingram  —  I 
forget  where.  A  man  has  well  drilled  the  rifle- 
men, —  a  statue  to  him ;  a  man  has  commanded 
a  manoeuvre  of  the  Horse  Guards,  —  a  statue  to 
him.  Another  has  been  a  supporter  of  the  past, 
has  squandered  all  the  wealth  of  England  in  pay- 
ing a  coalition  of  kings  against  1789,  against 


352  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

democracy,  against  light,  against  the  upward  move- 
ment of  the  human  race,  —  quick !  a  pedestal  for 
that,  a  statue  to  Mr.  Pitt.  Another  has  knowingly 
fought  against  truth,  in  the  hope  that  it  might  be 
vanquished;  but  finding,  one  fine  morning,  that 
truth  is  hard-lived,  that  it  is  strong,  that  it  might 
come  to  be  intrusted  with  forming  a  cabinet,  has 
then  passed  abruptly  over  to  its  side,  —  one  more 
pedestal,  a  statue  to  Mr.  Peel.  Everywhere,  in 
every  street,  in  every  square,  at  every  step,  gigan- 
tic notes  of  admiration  in  the  shape  of  columns, 
—  a  column  to  the  Duke  of  York,  which  should 
take  the  form  of  a  point  of  interrogation;  a  col- 
umn to  Nelson,  with  Caraccioli's  ghost  pointing 
the  finger  at  it ;  a  column  to  Wellington,  already 
mentioned ;  columns  for  everybody :  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  have  trailed  a  sabre  a  little.  At  Guernsey, 
by  the  seaside,  on  a  promontory,  there  is  a  high 
column  —  almost  a  tower — resembling  a  light- 
house. This  one  is  struck  by  lightning.  ^Eschylus 
would  have  contented  himself  with  it.  To  whom 
is  this?  To  General  Doyle.  Who  is  General 
Doyle?  A  general.  What  did  this  general  do? 
He  constructed  roads.  At  his  own  expense?  No, 
at  the  expense  of  the  inhabitants.  A  column 
to  him.  None  to  Shakespeare,  none  to  Milton, 
none  to  Newton;  the  name  of  Byron  is  obscene. 
Such  is  England,  that  illustrious  and  powerful 
nation. 

It  avails  little  that  this  nation  has  for  pioneer 
and  guide  the  generous  British  press,  which  is 
more  than  free,  which  is  sovereign,  and  which 
through  innumerable  excellent  journals  throws 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  353 

light  upon  every  question, — that  is  where  Eng- 
land is ;  and  let  not  France  laugh  too  loudly,  with 
her  statue  of  Negrier;  nor  Belgium,  with  her 
statue  of  Belliard;  nor  Prussia,  with  her  statue 
of  Bliicher;  nor  Austria,  with  the  statue  that  she 
probably  has  of  Schwartzenberg ;  nor  Russia,  with 
the  statue  that  she  must  have  of  Souwaroff.  If  it 
is  not  Schwartzenberg,  it  is  Windischgratz  ;  if  it  is 
not  Souwaroff,  it  is  Kutusoff. 

Be  Paskiewitch  or  Jellachich,  statue ;  be  Auge- 
reau  or  Bessieres,  statue;  be  an  Arthur  Welles- 
ley,  they  will  make  you  a  colossus,  and  the  ladies 
will  dedicate  you  to  yourself,  quite  naked,  with 
this  inscription :  "  Achilles."  A  young  man,  twenty 
years  of  age,  performs  the  heroic  action  of  marry- 
ing a  beautiful  young  girl ;  they  prepare  for  him 
triumphal  arches ;  they  come  to  see  him  out  of 
curiosity;  the  garter  is  sent  to  him  as  on  the 
morrow  of  a  battle;  the  public  squares  are  bril- 
liant with  fireworks;  people  who  perhaps  have 
gray  beards  put  on  perukes  to  come  and  harangue 
him  almost  on  their  knees ;  they  shoot  into  the 
air  millions  sterling  in  squibs  and  rockets,  amid 
the  applause  of  a  multitude  in  tatters  who  will 
have  no  bread  to-morrow.;  starving  Lancashire 
forms  a  companion-piece  to  the  wedding ;  people 
are  in  ecstasies,  they  fire  guns,  they  ring  the  bells, 
"  Rule  Britannia  !  "  "  God  save  the  prince."  What! 
this  young  man  has  the  kindness  to  do  this?  What 
a  glory  for  the  nation  !  Universal  admiration,  — 
a  great  people  becomes  frantic,  a  great  city  falls 
into  a  swoon,  a  balcony  looking  upon  the  passage 
of  the  young  man  is  rented  for  five  hundred 

23 


354  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

guineas,  people  crowd  themselves  together,  press 
upon  each  other,  thrust  each  other  beneath  the 
wheels  of  his  carriage,  seven  women  are  crushed 
to  death  in  the  enthusiasm,  their  little  children  are 
picked  up  dead  under  the  trampling  feet,  a  hun- 
dred persons,  partially  stifled,  are  carried  to  the 
hospital;  the  joy  is  inexpressible.  While  this 
is  going  on  in  London,  the  cutting  of  the  Isthmus 
of  Panama  is  postponed  by  a  war ;  the  cutting  of 
the  Isthmus  of  Suez  depends  on  some  Ismail 
Pasha;  a  company  (limited)  undertakes  the  sale 
of  the  water  of  Jordan  at  a  guinea  a  bottle ;  walls 
are  invented  proof  against  any  cannon-ball,  after 
which  missiles  are  invented  which  will  go  through 
any  wall ;  an  Armstrong  cannon-shot  costs  fifty 
pounds ;  Byzantium  contemplates  Abdul- Azis, 
Rome  goes  to  confession;  the  frogs,  encouraged 
by  the  stork,  call  for  a  heron,  —  Greece,  after  Otho, 
again  wants  a  king;  Mexico,  after  Iturbide,  again 
wants  an  emperor ;  China  wants  two  of  them,  the 
Middle  King,  a  Tartar,  and  the  Celestial  Emperor 
(Tien  Wang),  a  Chinaman.  .  .  .  O  earth!  throne 
of  stupidity. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  glory  of  Shakespeare  reached  England  from 
abroad.  There  was  almost  a  definite  day  and  hour 
when  one  might  have  been  present  at  the  landing 
of  his  fame  at  Dover. 


WILLIAM  SHA  KESPEARE.  355 

It  required  three  hundred  years  for  England  to 
catch  those  two  words  that  the  whole  world  shouted 
in  her  ear,  —  "  William  Shakespeare." 

What  is  England?  She  is  Elizabeth.  No  incar- 
nation is  more  complete.  In  admiring  Elizabeth, 
England  worships  her  own  image  in  the  glass. 
Proud  and  magnanimous,  but  strangely  hypo- 
critical, great  but  pedantic,  able  but  haughty, 
at  once  daring  and  prudish,  having  favorites  but 
no  masters,  even  in  her  bed  her  own  mistress,  all- 
powerful  queen,  inaccessible  woman,  —  Elizabeth 
is  a  virgin  as  England  is  an  island.  Like  England, 
she  calls  herself  Empress  of  the  sea,  Basilea  maris. 
A  dreadful  deep,  swept  by  the  wraths  that  spare 
not  even  Essex,  and  by  the  tempests  that  engulf 
armadas,  defends  this  virgin  and  this  island  from 
all  approach.  The  ocean  is  the  guardian  of  this 
modesty.  A  certain  celibacy,  in  fact,  constitutes 
the  genius  of  England.  Alliances  there  may  be, 
but  no  marriage.  The  world  must  always  keep 
its  distance.  To  live  alone,  to  go  alone,  to  reign 
alone,  to  be  alone,  —  such  is  Elizabeth,  such  is 
England. 

On  the  whole,  a  remarkable  queen,  and  a  won- 
derful nation. 

Shakespeare,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  sympathetic 
genius.  To  him,  insularity,  far  from  being  a  source 
of  strength,  is  a  bond  which  he  would  gladly  break. 
A  little  more,  and  Shakespeare  would  be  European. 
He  loves  and  praises  France ;  he  calls  her  "  the 
soldier  of  God."  Moreover,  in  that  prudish  nation 
he  is  the  free  poet. 

England    has   two   books,   one  which   she   has 


356  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

made,  the  other  which  has  made  her, — Shakespeare 
and  the  Bible.  These  two  books  do  not  altogether 
agree ;  the  Bible  opposes  Shakespeare. 

Certainly,  as  a  literary  book,  the  Bible  —  that 
vast  Oriental  beaker,  brimming  with  poetry  even 
more  than  Shakespeare  —  might  harmonize  with 
him ;  but  from  a  social  and  religious  point  of  view 
it  abhors  him.  Shakespeare  thinks,  Shakespeare 
dreams,  Shakespeare  doubts.  There  is  in  him 
something  of  that  Montaigne  whom  he  loved. 
The  "  To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  comes  from  the  "What 
do  I  know?"  of  Montaigne. 

Moreover,  Shakespeare  has  the  grievous  habit 
of  invention.  Faith  excommunicates  imagination. 
In  respect  to  fables,  Faith  is  a  bad  neighbor,  and 
licks  none  but  her  own  cubs.  One  recollects 
Solon's  staff  raised  against  Thespis  ;  one  recol- 
lects Omar's  firebrand  waved  over  Alexandria. 
The  situation  is  always  the  same.  Modern  fanati- 
cism has  inherited  that  staff  and  that  firebrand. 
This  is  true  in  Spain,  and  is  not  false  in  England. 
I  have  heard  an  Anglican  bishop,  in  discussing 
the  Iliad,  sum  up  all  in  this  crushing  assertion : 
"  It  is  not  true."  Now,  Shakespeare  can  be  de- 
scribed, much  more  truly  than  Homer,  as  "  a  liar." 

Two  or  three  years  ago  the  journals  announced 
that  a  French  writer  had  just  sold  a  novel  for  four 
hundred  thousand  francs.  This  made  a  noise  in 
England.  A  conformist  paper  exclaimed,  "  How 
can  a  falsehood  be  sold  at  such  a  price?" 

Besides,  two  words,  all-powerful  in  England, 
range  themselves  against  Shakespeare  and  block 
his  way,  —  "  Improper !  "  "  Shocking !  "  Let  it  be 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  357 

noted  that  in  a  multitude  of  places  the  Bible  also  is 
"improper,"  and  Holy  Writ  is  "shocking."  The 
Bible,  even  in  French,  and  through  the  rough  lips 
of  Calvin,  does  not  hesitate  to  say,  "Tu  as  paillarde, 
Jerusalem." l  These  crudities  form  a  part  of  poe- 
try as  well  as  of  anger,  and  the  prophets,  those  angry 
poets,  do  not  abstain  from  them.  Coarse  words 
are  constantly  on  their  lips.  But  England,  which 
is  continually  reading  the  Bible,  pretends  not  to 
notice  this.  Nothing  equals  the  power  of  volun- 
tary deafness  in  fanatics.  Would  you  have  another 
example  of  this  deafness?  Roman  orthodoxy  has 
not  to  this  day  admitted  the  brothers  and  sisters  of 
Jesus  Christ,  although  authenticated  by  the  four 
Evangelists.  It  is  in  vain  that  Matthew  says: 
"  Behold,  his  mother  and  his  brethren  stood  with- 
out. .  .  .  And  his  brethren,  James,  and  Joses,  and 
Simon,  and  Judas.  And  his  sisters,  are  they 
not  all  with  us?"  In  vain  Mark  insists:  "  Is  not 
this  the  carpenter,  the  son  of  Mary,  the  brother 
of  James,  and  Joses,  and  of  Juda,  and  Simon? 
and  are  not  his  sisters  here  with  us?"  In  vain 
Luke  repeats  :  "  Then  came  to  him  his  mother 
and  his  brethren."  In  vain  John  adds :  "  He,  and 
his  mother  and  his  brethren.  .  .  .  Neither  did 
his  brethren  believe  in  him.  .  .  .  But  when  his 
brethren  were  gone  up,"  —  Catholicism  does  not 
hear. 

To  make  up  for  this  deafness,  Puritanism  turns 
a  sensitive  ear  toward  Shakespeare,  —  of  whom  the 
Rev.  John  Wheeler  says,  he  is  "  like  all  poets, 
something  of  a  Pagan."  Intolerance  and  incon- 

1  Ezekiel  xvi.  28,  and  passim.  —  TR. 


358  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

sistency  are  sisters.  Besides,  in  the  matter  of 
proscribing  and  damning,  logic  is  superfluous. 
When  Shakespeare,  by  the  mouth  of  Othello, 
calls  Desdemona  "  whore,"  there  is  general  in- 
dignation, unanimous  revolt,  universal  scandal. 
Who  is  this  Shakespeare?  All  the  Biblical  sects 
stop  their  ears,  forgetting  that  Aaron  applies 
exactly  the  same  epithet  to  Sephora,  wife  of 
Moses.  It  is  true  that  this  occurs  in  an  apoc- 
ryphal work,  '  The  Life  of  Moses ; '  but  the 
apocryphal  works  are  quite  as  authentic  as  the 
canonical  ones. 

Hence  the  dogged  coldness  of  England  toward 
Shakespeare.  Her  attitude  toward  him  is  still  that 
of  Elizabeth,  —  at  least  we  fear  so ;  we  should  be 
happy  to  be  contradicted.  We  are  more  ambitious 
for  the  glory  of  England  than  England  is  herself. 
This  cannot  displease  her. 

England  has  a  strange  institution,  "  the  poet 
laureate,"  which  attests  the  official,  and  perhaps 
the  national  admirations.  Under  Elizabeth,  and 
during  Shakespeare's  life,  England's  poet  was 
named  Drummond.1 

Past,  indeed,  are  the  days  when  the  playbills 
read :  "  Macbeth,  Opera  of  Shakespeare,  altered 
by  Sir  William  Davenant."  But  if  '  Macbeth '  is 
played,  it  is  before  a  small  audience.  Kean  and 
Macready  have  failed  in  it. 

1  This  "  strange  institution "  seems  not  to  have  existed  in 
Elizabeth's  time;  and  it  is  difficult  to  understand  in  what  sense 
Scotch  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  can  be  called  "  England's 
poet "  under  Elizabeth,  since  he  was  but  eighteen  when  Elizabeth 
died,  and  published  his  first  volume  of  poetry  ten  years  later.  — 
TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  359 

At  this  hour  they  would  not  play  Shakespeare 
on  any  English  stage  without  erasing  from  the  text 
the  word  "God  "  wherever  they  find  it.  In  the  full 
tide  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain is  still  an  incubus  upon  Shakespeare.  In 
England,  outside  the  church,  the  word  "  God "  is 
not  made  use  of.  In  conversation  they  replace 
"God"  by  "Goodness."  In  the  editions  or  in  the 
representations  of  Shakespeare,  "  God  "  is  replaced 
by  "  Heaven."  What  matters  it  that  the  sense  is 
perverted,  that  the  verse  limps?  "Lord!  Lord! 
Lord  !  "  the  last  outcry  of  expiring  Desdemona, 
was  suppressed  by  official  command  in  the  edition 
of  Blount  and  Jaggard  in  1623.  They  do  not  utter 
it  on  the  stage.1  "  Sweet  Jesus !  "  would  be  a 
blasphemy ;  a  devout  Spanish  woman  on  the  Eng- 
lish stage  is  bound  to  exclaim  "  Sweet  Jupiter ! " 
Do  we  exaggerate?  Would  you  have  a  proof? 
Let  us  open  '  Measure  for  Measure.'  There  is  a 
nun,  Isabella.  Whom  does  she  invoke?  Jupiter. 
Shakespeare  wrote  it  "  Jesus."  2 

1  The  last  words  of  Desdemona  are,  — 

"  Commend  me  to  my  kinde  Lord:  oh  farewell." 

Her  "  kinde  Lord  "  is  not,  as  a  Frenchman  might  naturally  think, 
her  God,  but  her  husband.  —  TR. 

2  On  the  other  hand,  however,  in  spite  of  all  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlains, it  is  difficult  to  beat  the  French  censorship.     Religions 
are  diverse,  but  bigotry  is  one,  and  is  the  same  in  all  its  specimens. 
What  we  are  about  to  write  is  an  extract  from  the  notes  added  to 
his  translation  by  the  new  translator  of  Shakespeare  :  — 

" '  Jesus  !  Jesus ! '  This  exclamation  of  Shallow  was  expunged  in  the 
edition  of  1623,  conformably  to  the  statute  which  forbade  the  utterance  of 
the  name  of  the  Divinity  on  the  stage.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  our 
modern  theatre  has  had  to  undergo,  under  the  scissors  of  the  Bourbon 
censorship,  the  same  stupid  mutilations  to  which  the  censorship  of  the 


360  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

The  tone  of  a  certain  Puritanical  criticism  toward 
Shakespeare  is,  most  certainly,  improved ;  yet  the 
cure  is  not  complete. 

It  is  not  many  years  since  an  English  economist, 
a  man  of  authority,  making,  in  the  midst  of  social 
questions,  a  literary  excursion,  affirmed,  in  a  lofty 
digression,  and  without  showing  the  slightest  diffi- 
dence, this :  "  Shakespeare  cannot  live  because  he 
has  treated  subjects  for  the  most  part  foreign  or 
ancient,  —  'Hamlet,'  'Othello/  'Romeo  and  Juliet,' 
'  Macbeth,'  '  Lear,'  '  Julius  Caesar,'  '  Coriolanus,' 
'  Timon  of  Athens/  etc.  Now,  nothing  is  viable  in 
literature  except  matters  of  immediate  observation, 
and  works  relating  to  subjects  of  contemporary 
interest."  What  say  you  to  this  theory?  We 
should  not  mention  it  if  it  had  not  found  ap- 
provers in  England  and  propagators  in  France. 
Besides  Shakespeare,  it  simply  excludes  from  lit- 
erary "life"  Schiller,  Corneille,  Milton,  Virgil, 
Euripides,  Sophocles,  ^Eschylus,  and  Homer.  It 
is  true  that  it  surrounds  with  a  halo  of  glory  Aulus 

Stuarts  condemned  the  theatre  of  Shakespeare.     I  read  what  follows  in  the 
first  page  of  the  manuscript  of  '  Hernani,'  which  I  have  in  my  hands  :  — 

'  Received  at  the  Theatre- Francais,  Oct.  8,  1829. 

*  The  Stage-manager. 

'  ALBERTIN.' 
And  below,  in  red  ink  : 

'  On  condition  of  expunging  the  name  of  "  Jesus  "  wherever  found,  and  con- 
forming to  the  alterations  marked  at  pages  27,  28,  29,  62,  74,  and  76. 

'  The  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Department  of  the  Interior, 

'  LA    BOURDONNAYE.* 

(Vol.  XL  Notes  on  <  Richard  IT.'  and '  Henry  IV.,'  note  71,  p.  462.) " 
We  may  add  that  in  the  scenery  representing  Saragossa  (second 
act  of  '  Hernani')  it  was  forbidden  to  introduce  any  belfry  or  any 
church,  —  a  prohibition  which  made  resemblance  rather  difficult, 
Saragossa  having  had,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  three  hundred  and 
nine  churches,  and  six  hundred  and  seventeen  convents. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  361 

Gellius  and  Restif  de  la  Bretonne.     O  critic,  this 
Shakespeare  is  not  viable,  —  he  is  only  immortal ! 

About  the  same  time  another  —  English  also, 
but  of  the  Scotch  school,  a  Puritan  of  that  dis- 
contented variety  of  which  Knox  is  the  head  — 
declared  poetry  to  be  childishness ;  rejected  beauty 
of  style  as  an  obstacle  interposed  between  the 
thought  and  the  reader ;  saw  in  Hamlet's  soliloquy 
only  "  a  cold  lyricism,"  and  in  Othello's  adieu  to 
camps  and  banners  only  "  a  declamation  ;  "  likened 
the  metaphors  of  poets  to  colored  prints  in  books, 
fit  only  to  amuse  babies ;  and  showed  a  particular 
contempt  for  Shakespeare,  as  "  bedaubed  from  one 
end  to  the  other  with  those  bright  pictures." 

Not  longer  ago  than  last  January,  a  witty  London 
paper  was  asking  with  indignant  irony  who  is  the 
more  celebrated  in  England,  Shakespeare,  or  "  Mr. 
Calcraft,  the  hangman,"  "  There  are  localities  in 
this  enlightened  country  where,  if  you  utter  the 
name  of  Shakespeare,  they  will  answer  you :  '  I 
don't  know  what  this  Shakespeare  may  be,  about 
whom  you  make  all  this  fuss,  but  I  will  back 
Hammer  Lane  of  Birmingham  to  fight  him  for 
five  pounds.'  But  no  mistake  is  made  about 
Calcraft."  * 

1  'Daily  Telegraph,'  Jan.  13,  1864. 


362  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AT  all  events,  Shakespeare  has  not  the  monu- 
ment that  England  owes  to  him. 

France,  let  us  admit,  is  not,  in  like  cases,  much 
prompter.  Another  glory,  very  different  from 
Shakespeare,  but  not  less  grand,  Joan  of  Arc, 
waits  also,  and  has  waited  long,  for  a  national 
monument  —  a  monument  worthy  of  her. 

This  land,  which  was  once  Gaul,  and  where  the 
Velledas  reigned,  has,  in  a  Catholic  and  historic 
sense,  as  patronesses  two  august  figures,  Mary  and 
Joan.  The  one,  holy,  is  the  Virgin;  the  other, 
heroic,  is  the  Maid.  Louis  XIII.  gave  France  to 
the  one;  the  other  gave  back  France  to  France. 
The  monument  of  the  second  should  not  be  less 
lofty  than  the  monument  of  the  first.  Joan  of  Arc 
must  have  a  trophy  as  grand  as  Notre  Dame. 
When  shall  she  have  it? 

England  is  insolvent  toward  Shakespeare,  but 
France  is  bankrupt  toward  Joan  of  Arc. 

These  ingratitudes  need  to  be  sternly  denounced. 
Doubtless  the  governing  aristocracies,  which  blind 
the  eyes  of  the  masses,  are,  in  the  first  instance, 
guilty.  But  on  the  whole,  conscience  exists  for  a 
people  as  for  an  individual;  ignorance  is  only  an 
extenuating  circumstance;  and  when  these  denials 
of  justice  last  for  centuries,  they  remain  the  fault  of 
governments,  while  becoming  the  fault  of  nations. 
Let  us  know,  when  necessary,  how  to  tell  nations 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  363 

of  their  shortcomings.  France  and  England,  you 
are  both  wrong ! 

To  flatter  a  people  would  be  worse  than  to  flat- 
ter a  king.  The  one  is  base,  the  other  would  be 
dastardly. 

Let  us  go  farther,  and,  since  the  thought  presents 
itself,  make  a  useful  generalization  from  it,  even 
should  it  take  us  for  a  moment  from  our  subject. 
No,  the  people  are  not  right  in  ascribing  the  blame 
indefinitely  to  the  governments.  The  acceptance 
of  oppression  by  the  oppressed  ends  in  complicity ; 
cowardice  is  consent  whenever  the  duration  of  a 
bad  thing,  which  weighs  upon  a  people,  and  which 
that  people  could  prevent  if  it  would,  goes  beyond 
the  bounds  of  an  honest  man's  patience ;  there  is 
an  appreciable  solidarity  and  a  partnership  in 
shame  between  the  government  guilty  of  the  evil 
and  the  people  submitting  to  it.  It  is  venerable 
to  suffer  ;  to  submit  is  contemptible.  —  Let  us 
pass  on. 

It  is  a  coincidence  worthy  of  note  that  Voltaire, 
the  denier  of  Shakespeare,  is  also  the  reviler  of 
Joan  of  Arc.  What  are  we  to  think  of  Voltaire? 
Voltaire  (we  say  it  with  mingled  joy  and  grief) 
is  the  French  mind,  —  the  French  mind  up  to 
the  Revolution,  solely.  Since  the  Revolution,  the 
French  mind  has  grown  with  the  growth  of  France, 
and  tends  to  become  the  European  mind.  It  is 
less  local  and  more  fraternal,  less  Gallic  and  more 
human.  It  represents  more  and  more  Paris,  the 
urban  heart  of  the  world.  As  for  Voltaire,  he 
remains  what  he  is,  —  the  man  of  the  future ;  but 
also  the  man  of  the  past.  He  is  one  of  those 


364  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

glories  which  make  the  thinker  say  yes  and  no ; 
he  has  against  him  two  sarcasms,  —  Joan  of  Arc, 
and  Shakespeare.  He  is  punished  through  what 
he  sneered  at. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHEREFORE,  indeed,  a  monument  to  Shake- 
speare? The  statue  he  has  made  for  himself,  with 
all  England  for  a  pedestal,  is  better.  Shakespeare 
has  no  need  of  a  pyramid ;  he  has  his  work. 

What  do  you  suppose  marble  could  do  for  him? 
What  can  bronze  do,  where  there  is  glory?  Mala- 
chite and  alabaster  are  of  no  avail ;  jasper,  serpen- 
tine, basalt,  red  porphyry  like  that  at  the  Invalides, 
granite,  marble  of  Paros  and  Carrara,  are  a  waste 
of  pains :  genius  is  genius  without  them.  What 
though  every  variety  of  stone  had  its  place  there, 
would  that  add  a  cubit  to  this  man's  stature? 
What  arch  shall  be  more  indestructible  than  this, — 
'  The  Winter's  Tale,'  '  The  Tempest/  '  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor,'  '  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona/ 
'  Julius  Caesar/  '  Coriolanus '  ?  What  monument 
sublimer  than  '  Lear/  sterner  than  '  The  Merchant 
of  Venice/  more  dazzling  than  '  Romeo  and  Juliet/ 
more  amazing  than  '  Richard  III/  ?  What  moon 
could  shed  about  the  pile  a  light  more  mystic  than 
that  of  'A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream'?  What 
capital,  were  it  even  London,  could  rumble  around 
it  as  tumultuously  as  Macbeth's  perturbed  soul? 
What  framework  of  cedar  or  of  oak  will  last  as 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  365 

long  as  '  Othello '  ?  What  bronze  can  equal  the 
bronze  of  '  Hamlet'?  No  construction  of  lime,  of 
rock,  of  iron,  and  of  cement,  is  worth  the  deep 
breath  of  genius,  which  is  the  respiration  of  God 
through  man.  A  head  containing  an  idea,  such  is 
the  summit;  no  heaps  of  brick  and  stone  can  rival 
it.  What  edifice  equals  a  thought?  Babel  is  less 
lofty  than  Isaiah ;  Cheops  is  smaller  than  Homer ; 
the  Colosseum  is  inferior  to  Juvenal ;  the  Giralda  of 
Seville  is  dwarfish  by  the  side  of  Cervantes;  St. 
Peter's  of  Rome  does  not  reach  to  the  ankle  of 
Dante.  What  architect  has  skill  to  build  a  tower 
as  high  as  the  name  of  Shakespeare? 

Add  anything,  if  you  can,  to  a  mind ! 

Imagine  a  monument.  Suppose  it  splendid, 
suppose  it  sublime.  A  triumphal  arch,  an  obelisk, 
a  circus  with  a  pedestal  in  the  centre,  a  cathedral. 
No  people  is  more  illustrious,  more  noble,  more 
splendid,  more  high-minded,  than  the  English  peo- 
ple. Wed  these  two  ideas,  England  and  Shake- 
speare, and  let  their  issue  be  a  monument.  Such 
a  nation  celebrating  such  a  man,  —  the  spectacle 
would  be  superb.  Imagine  the  monument,  imagine 
the  inauguration.  The  Peers  are  there,  the  Com- 
mons follow,  the  bishops  officiate,  the  princes  join 
the  procession,  the  Queen  is  present.  The  virtuous 
woman,  in  whom  the  English  people,  royalist  as  we 
know,  see  and  revere  their  living  personification, 
this  worthy  mother,  this  noble  widow,  comes,  with 
the  deep  respect  which  is  befitting,  to  incline  ma- 
terial majesty  before  ideal  majesty,  —  the  Queen 
of  England  salutes  Shakespeare;  the  homage  of 
Victoria  repairs  the  disdain  of  Elizabeth.  As  for 


366  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Elizabeth,  she  is  probably  there  also,  sculptured 
somewhere  on  the  surbase,  with  Henry  VIII.  her 
father,  and  James  I.  her  successor,  —  pigmies  be- 
neath the  poet.  Cannons  boom,  the  curtain  drops, 
the  unveiled  statue  seems  to  say:  "At  length!" 
It  has  grown  in  the  darkness  for  three  hundred 
years, — three  centuries,  the  youth  of  a  colossus; 
how  vast  it  is !  To  compose  it,  the  bronze  statues 
of  York,  of  Cumberland,  of  Pitt,  and  of  Peel,  have 
been  utilized ;  the  public  squares  have  been  re- 
lieved of  a  heap  of  unjustifiable  castings;  all  sorts 
of  Henries  and  Edwards  have  been  blended  in  that 
lofty  figure ;  for  it  the  various  Williams  and  the 
numerous  Georges  have  been  melted  down;  the 
Hyde  Park  Achilles  forms  its  great  toe  :  it  is 
noble,  —  behold  Shakespeare  almost  as  great  as  a 
Pharaoh  or  a  Sesostris !  Bells,  drums,  trumpets, 
applause,  hurrahs. 

What  then? 

To  England  this  is  honorable;  to  Shakespeare 
indifferent. 

What  is  the  salutation  of  royalty,  of  aristocracy, 
of  the  army,  and  even  of  the  English  populace,  — 
like  almost  all  other  nations,  still  ignorant,  —  what 
is  the  acclamation  of  all  these  variously  enlightened 
groups,  to  one  who  has  the  eternal  and  well-con- 
sidered applause  of  all  centuries  and  of  all  men? 
What  oration  of  the  Bishop  of  London  or  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  is  worth  the  cry  of  a 
woman  before  Desdemona,  of  a  mother  before 
Arthur,  of  a  soul  before  Hamlet? 

When,  therefore,  a  universal  voice  demands  of 
England  a  monument  to  Shakespeare,  it  is  not  for 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  367 

the  sake  of  Shakespeare,  it  is  for  the  sake  of 
England. 

There  are  cases  in  which  the  repayment  of  a 
debt  is  of  greater  import  to  the  debtor  than  to 
the  creditor. 

A  monument  is  an  example.  The  lofty  head  of 
a  great  man  is  a  light.  Crowds,  like  the  waves, 
require  beacons  above  them.  It  is  good  that  the 
passer-by  should  know  that  there  are  great  men. 
People  may  not  have  time  to  read  :  they  are  forced 
to  see.  One  passes  that  way,  and  stumbles  against 
the  pedestal;  one  is  almost  obliged  to  raise  the 
head  and  to  glance  a  little  at  the  inscription.  Men 
escape  a  book  ;  they  cannot  escape  the  statue. 
One  day  on  the  bridge  of  Rouen,  before  the 
beautiful  statue  carved  by  David  d'Angers,  a 
peasant  mounted  on  a  donkey  said  to  me,  "  Do 
you  know  Pierre  Corneille?"  "Yes,"  I  replied. 
"  So  do  I,"  he  rejoined.  "  And  do  you  know 
'The  Cid'?"  I  resumed.  "  No,"  said  he. 

To  him  the  statue  was  Corneille. 

The  people  need  such  an  introduction  to  their 
great  men.  The  monument  incites  them  to  know 
more  of  the  man.  They  desire  to  learn  to  read, 
in  order  to  know  what  this  bronze  means.  A  statue 
is  a  nudge  to  ignorance. 

The  erection  of  such  monuments  is  therefore  not 
merely  a  matter  of  national  justice,  but  of  populaf 
utility. 

In  the  end,  England  will  certainly  yield  to  the 
temptation  of  performing  an  act  at  once  useful 
and  just.  She  is  the  debtor  of  Shakespeare.  Te 
leave  such  a  debt  in  abeyance  is  an  attitude  hardly 


368  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

compatible  with  national  pride.  It  is  a  point  of 
morality  that  nations  should  pay  their  debts  of 
gratitude.  Enthusiasm  is  probity.  When  a  man 
is  a  glory  upon  his  nation's  brow,  the  nation  that 
fails  to  recognize  the  fact  excites  the  amazement 
of  the  race. 


CHAPTER  VI, 

As  it  was  easy  to  foresee,  England  will  build  a 
monument  to  her  poet. 

At  the  very  moment  when  we  finished  writing 
the  pages  you  have  just  read,  announcement  was 
made  in  London  of  the  formation  of  a  committee 
for  the  solemn  celebration  of  the  three-hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Shakespeare.  This 
committee  will  dedicate  to  Shakespeare,  on  the 
23d  of  April,  1864,  a  monument  and  a  festival, 
which  will  surpass,  we  doubt  not,  the  incomplete 
programme  we  have  just  sketched  out.  They  will 
spare  nothing.  The  act  of  admiration  will  be  a 
striking  one.  One  may  expect  everything,  in 
point  of  magnificence,  from  the  nation  which  has 
created  the  prodigious  palace  at  Sydenham,  that 
Versailles  of  a  people.  The  initiative  taken  by  the 
committee  will  certainly  receive  support  from  the 
powers  that  be.  We  discard,  for  our  part,  and 
the  committee  will  discard,  we  think,  all  idea  of 
a  testimonial  by  subscription.  A  subscription, 
unless  of  one  penny,  —  that  is  to  say,  open  to  all 
the  people,  —  is  necessarily  fractional.  What  is 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  369 

due  to  Shakespeare  is  a  national  testimonial,  —  a 
holiday,  a  public  festival,  a  popular  monument, 
voted  by  the  Chambers  and  entered  in  the  Budget. 
England  would  do  it  for  her  king.  Now,  what  is 
the  King  of  England  beside  the  Man  of  England  ? 
All  confidence  is  due  to  the  Shakespeare  Jubilee 
Committee,  —  a  committee  composed  of  persons 
highly  distinguished  in  the  Press,  the  peerage, 
literature,  the  theatre,  and  the  Church.  Eminent 
men  from  all  countries,  representing  the  intelli- 
gence of  France,  of  Germany,  of  Belgium,  of  Spain, 
of  Italy,  complete  this  committee,  which  is  from  all 
points  of  view  excellent  and  competent.  Another 
committee,  formed  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  seconds 
the  London  committee.  We  congratulate  England. 

Nations  are  hard  of  hearing,  but  so  long  of  life 
that  their  deafness  is  in  no  way  irreparable.  They 
have  time  to  change  their  minds.  The  English  are 
at  last  awakening  to  their  glory.  England  begins 
to  spell  that  name,  Shakespeare,  upon  which  the 
World  has  laid  her  finger. 

In  April,  1664,  a  hundred  years  after  Shake- 
speare's birth,  England  was  engaged  in  applauding 
Charles  II.,  —  who  had  sold  Dunkirk  to  France 
for  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds  sterling, 
—  and  in  looking  at  something,  that  was  a  skeleton 
and  had  been  Cromwell,  whitening  in  the  northeast 
wind  and  the  rain  on  the  gallows  at  Tyburn.  In 
April,  1764,  two  hundred  years  after  Shakespeare's 
birth,  England  was  contemplating  the  aurora  of 
George  III.,  —  a  king  destined  to  imbecility,  who, 
at  that  epoch,  in  secret  councils,  and  in  somewhat 
unconstitutional  asides  with  the  Tory  chiefs  and 

24 


370 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


the  German  Landgraves,  was  sketching  out  that 
policy  of  resistance  to  progress  which  was  to 
strive,  first  against  liberty  in  America,  then  against 
democracy  in  France,  and  which,  under  the  single 
ministry  of  the  first  Pitt,  had  in  1778  raised  the 
debt  of  England  to  the  sum  of  eighty  millions 
sterling.  In  April,  1864,  three  hundred  years 
after  Shakespeare's  birth,  England  raises  a  statue 
to  Shakespeare.  It  is  late,  —  but  it  is  well. 


BOOK    II. 

THE   NINETEENTH    CENTURY. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  nineteenth  century  holds  tenure  of  itself 
only ;  it  receives  its  impulse  from  no  ancestor ; 
it  is  the  offspring  of  an  idea.  Doubtless  Isaiah, 
Homer,  Aristotle,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  have  been 
or  could  be  great  starting-points  for  important 
philosophical  or  poetical  growths;  but  the  nine- 
teenth century  has  for  its  august  mother  the 
French  Revolution.  This  redoubtable  blood  flows 
in  its  veins.  It  honors  men  of  genius,  and  if  need 
be  salutes  them  when  despised,  proclaims  them 
when  ignored,  avenges  them  when  persecuted,  re- 
enthrones  them  when  dethroned :  it  venerates  them, 
but  it  does  not  proceed  from  them.  The  nineteenth 
century  has  for  family  itself,  and  itself  alone.  It 
is  the  characteristic  of  its  revolutionary  nature  to 
dispense  with  ancestors. 

Itself  a  genius,  it  fraternizes  with  men  of  genius. 
As  for  its  source,  it  is  where  theirs  is,  —  beyond 
man.  The  mysterious  gestations  of  progress  suc- 
ceed each  other  according  to  a  providential  law. 


3/2  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

The  nineteenth  century  is  a  birth  of  civilization. 
It  has  a  continent  to  bring  into  the  world.  France 
has  borne  this  century,  and  this  century  bears 
Europe. 

When  civilization  was  coexistent  with  Greece,  it 
was  at  first  circumscribed  by  the  narrow  limits  of 
the  Morea,  or  Mulberry  Leaf;  then,  widening  by 
degrees,  it  spread  over  the  Roman  group  of  na- 
tions. To-day  it  distinguishes  the  French  group ; 
that  is  to  say,  all  Europe,  with  beginnings  in 
America,  in  Africa,  and  in  Asia. 

The  greatest  of  these  beginnings  is  a  democracy, 
the  United  States,  whose  first  tender  growth  was 
fostered  by  France  in  the  last  century.  France, 
sublime  essayist  in  progress,  founded  a  republic  in 
America  before  making  one  in  Europe.  Et  vidit 
quod  esset  bonum.  After  having  lent  to  Washington 
an  auxiliary,  Lafayette,  France,  returning  home, 
gave  to  Voltaire,  dismayed  within  his  tomb,  that 
formidable  successor,  Danton.  When  the  Past, 
that  grisly  monster,  being  brought  to  bay,  was 
hurling  all  its  thunderbolts,  exhaling  all  its  mias- 
mas, belching  black  vapors,  protruding  horrible 
talons,  Progress,  forced  to  use  the  same  weapons, 
suddenly  put  forth  a  hundred  arms,  a  hundred 
heads,  a  hundred  fiery  tongues,  a  hundred  bel- 
lowings.  The  good  took  the  form  of  the  hydra. 
And  this  is  what  is  called  the  Revolution. 

Nothing  can  be  more  august. 

The  Revolution  ended  one  century  and  began 
another. 

An  agitation  in  the  world  of  mind  preparatory 
to  an  upheaval  in  the  world  of  fact:  such  is  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  373 

eighteenth  century.  The  political  revolution,  once 
accomplished,  seeks  its  expression,  and  the  literary 
and  social  revolution  takes  place :  such  is  the  nine- 
teenth century.  It  has  been  said  with  truth,  al- 
though with  hostile  intent,  that  romanticism  and 
socialism  are  the  same  fact.  Hatred,  wishing  to 
injure,  often  affirms,  and,  so  far  as  in  it  lies, 
consolidates. 

A  parenthesis.  This  word  "  romanticism  "  has, 
like  all  war-cries,  the  advantage  of  sharply  epito- 
mizing a  group  of  ideas ;  it  is  brief,  which  pleases 
in  the  contest:  but  it  has,  to  our  mind,  through 
its  militant  signification,  the  inconvenience  of  ap- 
pearing to  limit  to  a  warlike  action  the  movement 
that  it  represents.  Now  this  movement  is  intelli- 
gence, an  act  of  civilization,  an  act  of  soul;  and 
this  is  why  the  writer  of  these  lines  has  never  used 
the  words  "  romanticism  "  and  "  romantic."  They 
will  be  found  in  none  of  the  pages  of  criticism  that 
he  has  had  occasion  to  write.  If  to-day  he  departs 
from  his  usual  prudence  in  polemics,  it  is  for  the 
sake  of  greater  rapidity,  and  with  every  reservation. 
The  same  observation  may  be  made  on  the  subject 
of  the  word  "  socialism,"  which  admits  of  so  many 
different  interpretations. 

The  triple  movement  —  literary,  philosophical, 
and  social  —  of  the  nineteenth  century,  which  is 
one  single  movement,  is  nothing  but  the  current  of 
the  revolution  in  ideas.  This  current,  after  having 
swept  away  so  many  facts,  flows  on,  broad  and 
deep,  through  the  minds  of  men. 

The  term  "  literary  '93,"  so  often  repeated  in 
1830  against  the  contemporaneous  literature,  was 


374  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

not  so  much  an  insult  as  it  was  meant  to  be.  It 
was  certainly  as  unjust  to  employ  it  to  characterize 
the  whole  literary  movement  as  it  is  wrong  to  em- 
ploy it  to  describe  the  whole  political  revolution ; 
there  is  in  these  two  phenomena  something  besides 
'93.  But  this  term,  "  literary  '93,"  was  so  far  rela- 
tively exact  that  it  indicated,  confusedly  but  truth- 
fully, the  origin  of  the  literary  movement  of  our 
epoch,  while  endeavoring  to  dishonor  that  move- 
ment. Here  again  the  clairvoyance  of  hatred  was 
blind.  Its  daubings  of  mud  upon  the  face  of  Truth 
are  gilding,  light,  and  glory. 

The  Revolution,  that  grand  climacteric  of  hu- 
manity, is  made  up  of  several  years.  Each  of  these 
years  expresses  a  period,  represents  an  aspect,  or 
realizes  a  phase  of  the  phenomenon.  Tragic  '93 
is  one  of  these  colossal  years.  Good  news  must 
sometimes  be  spoken  through  a  brazen  mouth; 
such  a  mouth  is  '93. 

Listen  to  the  tremendous  proclamation  issuing 
from  it.  Bow  down,  remain  awestruck,  and  be 
touched.  In  the  beginning  God  himself  said, 
"  Fiat  lux ;  "  the  second  time,  He  had  it  said. 

By  whom? 

By  '93- 

Hence  it  is  that  we  men  of  the  nineteenth  century 
glory  in  the  reproach,  "  You  are  of  '93." 

But  we  must  not  stop  here.  We  are  of  '89  as 
well  as  of  '93.  The  Revolution,  the  whole  Revo- 
lution,—  this  is  the  source  of  the  literature  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 

Then  put  this  literature  on  trial,  or  seek  its 
triumph;  hate  it  or  love  it;  according  to  the 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  375 

amount  of  your  faith  in  the  future,  insult  it  or 
salute  it:  little  does  it  care  for  your  animosity  and 
fury.  It  is  a  logical  deduction  from  the  great 
chaotic  and  primordial  fact  which  our  fathers  wit- 
nessed, and  which  has  given  the  world  a  new  point 
of  departure.  He  who  is  against  that  fact  is  against 
that  literature ;  he  who  is  for  that  fact  is  on  its  side. 
What  the  fact  is  worth  the  literature  is  worth. 
Reactionary  writers  are  not  at  fault.  Wherever 
there  is  revolution,  patent  or  latent,  the  Catholic 
and  Royalist  scent  is  unerring.  These  ancient 
men  of  letters  award  to  contemporary  literature 
an  honorable  portion  of  diatribe;  their  aversion 
is  convulsive.  One  of  their  journalists,  who  is, 
I  believe,  a  bishop,  pronounces  the  word  "poet" 
with  the  same  accent  as  the  word  "  Septembrist ;  " 
another,  less  episcopal  but  equally  angry,  writes : 
"I  feel  in  all  this  literature  Marat  and  Robes- 
pierre." This  latter  writer  is  slightly  in  error; 
Danton,  rather  than  Marat,  is  to  be  felt  in  this 
literature. 

But  the  fact  is  true;  this  literature  is  full  of 
democracy. 

The  Revolution  forged  the  bugle ;  the  nineteenth 
century  sounds  it. 

Ah !  this  avowal  suits  us,  and  in  truth  we  do 
not  shrink  from  it;  let  us  admit  our  glory,  —  we 
are  the  Revolutionists.  The  thinkers  of  this  time 
—  poets,  publicists,  historians,  orators,  philoso- 
phers—  trace  their  lineage,  every  one,  to  the  French 
Revolution.  From  it  they  descend,  and  from  it 
alone.  '89  demolished  the  Bastile  ;  '93  discrowned 
the  Louvre.  Deliverance  sprang  from  '89 ;  victory 


3/6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

from  '93.  '89  and  '93, —  from  that  source  issue 
the  men  of  the  nineteenth  century.  This  is  their 
father  and  their  mother.  Seek  for  them  no  other 
lineage,  no  other  inspiration,  no  other  breath  of 
life,  no  other  origin.  They  are  the  democrats  of 
thought,  successors  to  the  democrats  of  action. 
They  are  liberators.  Freedom  was  the  nurse  that 
bent  over  their  cradles ;  that  ample  breast  suckled 
them  all ;  they  all  have  her  milk  in  their  bodies, 
her  marrow  in  their  bones,  her  granite  in  their 
will,  her  rebellion  in  their  reason,  her  fire  in  their 
intelligence. 

Even  those  among  them  (and  there  are  some) 
who  were  by  birth  aristocrats,  who  came  into  the 
world  strangers  in  old-time  families,  who  received 
that  fatal  early  training  whose  stupid  endeavor  -  it 
is  to  counteract  progress,  and  who  began  their 
message  to  the  century  by  some  unmeaning  stam- 
mering of  royalism, —  even  these  (they  will  not 
contradict  me)  felt  within  them,  even  from  their 
infancy,  the  sublime  monster.  They  felt  the  in- 
ward ferment  of  the  vast  reality.  In  the  deeps  of 
consciousness  they  felt  an  uprising  of  mysterious 
thoughts ;  their  souls  were  shaken  by  the  profound 
perturbation  of  false  certitudes ;  little  by  little  they 
perceived  the  sombre  surface  of  their  monarchism, 
Catholicism,  and  aristocracy,  trembling,  quaking, 
gaping  open.  One  day  the  swelling  of  truth 
within  them  abruptly  culminated,  and  suddenly 
the  crust  was  rent,  the  eruption  took  place,  and 
behold  them  opened,  shivered  by  a  light  which  fell 
not  upon  them  from  without,  but —  nobler  miracle  ! 
—  issued  from  these  astonished  men,  and  illumi- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  377 

nated  them  while  it  set  them  aflame.  All  unawares, 
they  had  become  volcanic  craters. 

They  have  been  reproached  with  this  phenom- 
enon, as  with  treason.  In  fact,  they  passed  over 
from  right  divine  to  human  rights.  They  turned 
the  back  upon  false  history,  false  tradition,  false 
dogmas,  false  philosophy,  false  daylight,  false  truth. 
That  dawn-summoned  bird,  the  free-soaring  spirit, 
is  offensive  to  minds  saturated  with  ignorance  and 
to  embryons  preserved  in  alcohol.  He  who  sees, 
offends  the  blind ;  he  who  hears,  enrages  the  deaf; 
he  who  walks,  insults  the  cripple  in  his  wooden 
bowl.  In  the  eyes  of  dwarfs,  abortions,  Aztecs, 
myrmidons,  and  pigmies  forever  stunted  with  the 
rickets,  growth  is  apostasy. 

The  writers  and  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century 
have  the  admirable  good  fortune  of  proceeding 
from  a  genesis,  of  arriving  after  an  end  of  the 
world,  of  accompanying  a  reappearance  of  light, 
of  being  the  organs  of  a  new  beginning.  This 
imposes  on  them  duties  unknown  to  their  prede- 
cessors, —  the  duties  of  intentional  reformers  and 
direct  civilizers.  They  continue  nothing;  they 
form  everything  anew.  The  new  time  brings  new 
duties.  The  function  of  thinkers  in  our  days  is 
complex:  it  no  longer  suffices  to  think,  —  one 
must  love;  it  no  longer  suffices  to  think  and  to 
love,  —  one  must  act.  To  think,  to  love,  and  to 
act,  no  longer  suffice,  —  one  must  suffer.  Lay 
down  the  pen,  and  go  where  you  hear  the  grape- 
shot.  Here  is  a  barricade ;  take  your  place  there. 
Here  is  exile;  accept  it.  Here  is  the  scaffold, — 
be  it  so.  Let  the  Montesquieu  be  able,  in  case  of 


378  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

need,  to  act  the  part  of  John  Brown.  The  Lucre- 
tius of  this  travailing  century  should  contain  a 
Cato.  ^Eschylus,  who  wrote  '  The  Oresteia/  had 
a  brother,  Cynegirus,  who  grappled  the  enemy's 
ships ;  that  was  sufficient  for  Greece  at  the  time  of 
Salamis,  but  it  no  longer  suffices  for  France  after 
the  Revolution.  That  ^Eschylus  and  Cynegirus 
are  brothers,  is  but  little ;  they  must  needs  be  the 
same  man.  Such  are  the  present  requirements  of 
progress.  Those  who  devote  themselves  to  great 
and  urgent  causes  can  never  be  too  great.  To  set 
ideas  in  motion,  to  heap  up  evidence,  to  scaffold 
up  principles,  —  such  is  the  formidable  endeavor. 
To  heap  Pelion  on  Ossa  is  the  labor  of  infants 
beside  that  work  of  giants,  the  establishing  of  right 
upon  truth.  Afterward  to  scale  that  height,  and 
to  dethrone  usurpations  in  the  midst  of  thunders, 
—  such  is  the  task. 

The  future  presses.  To-morrow  cannot  wait. 
Humanity  has  not  a  minute  to  lose.  Quick ! 
quick !  let  us  hasten.  The  wretched  have  their 
feet  on  red-hot  iron;  they  hunger,  they  thirst, 
they  suffer.  Alas  !  terrible  emaciation  of  the  poor 
human  body.  Parasitism  laughs,  the  ivy  -  grows 
green  and  thrives,  the  mistletoe  flourishes,  the 
solitary  slug  is  happy.  How  frightful  is  the  pros- 
perity of  the  tapeworm !  To  destroy  that  which 
devours,  in  that  is  safety.  Within  your  life  death 
itself  lives  and  thrives  robustly.  There  is  too 
much  poverty,  too  much  privation,  too  much  im- 
modesty, too  much  nakedness,  too  many  houses  of 
shame,  too  many  convict  prisons,  too  many  tat- 
ters, too  many  defalcations,  too  many  crimes,  too 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  379 

much  darkness;  not  enough  schools;  too  many 
little  innocents  growing  up  for  evil !  The  pallet 
of  the  poor  girl  is  suddenly  covered  with  silk  and 
lace,  —  and  in  that  is  the  worst  misery;  by  the 
side  of  misfortune  there  is  vice,  the  one  urging  on 
the  other.  Such  a  society  requires  prompt  suc- 
cor. Let  us  seek  out  the  best.  Go,  all  of  you,  in 
this  search!  Where  are  the  promised  lands? 
Civilization  must  march  forward ;  let  us  test  theo- 
ries, systems,  ameliorations,  inventions,  reforms, 
until  the  shoe  for  that  foot  shall  be  found.  The 
experiment  costs  nothing,  or  costs  but  little.  To 
try  is  not  to  adopt.  But  before  all,  above  all,  let 
us  be  lavish  of  the  light.  All  sanitary  purifica- 
tion begins  by  opening  the  windows  wide.  Let 
us  open  wide  all  intellects;  let  us  supply  souls 
with  air. 

Quick,  quick,  O  thinkers !  Let  the  human  race 
breathe.  Shed  abroad  hope,  sow  the  ideal,  do 
good.  One  step  after  another,  horizon  after  hori- 
zon, conquest  after  conquest;  because  you  have 
given  what  you  promised,  do  not  hold  yourself 
quit  of  obligation.  To  perform  is  to  promise. 
To-day's  dawn  pledges  the  sun  for  to-morrow. 

Let  nothing  be  lost.  Let  not  one  force  be  iso- 
lated. Every  one  to  work  !  the  urgency  is  supreme. 
No  more  idle  art.  Poetry  the  worker  of  civili- 
zation,—  what  could  be  more  admirable?  The 
dreamer  should  be  a  pioneer;  the  strophe  should 
mean  something.  The  beautiful  should  be  at  the 
service  of  honesty.  I  am  the  valet  of  my  con- 
science;  it  rings  for  me:  I  come.  "  Go."  I  go. 
What  do  you  require  of  me,  O  Truth !  sole  mon- 


3 SO  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

arch  of  this  world?  Let  each  one  have  within 
him  an  eagerness  for  well-doing.  A  book  is  some- 
times looked  forward  to  for  succor.  An  idea  is  a 
balm ;  a  word  may  be  a  dressing  for  wounds ; 
poetry  is  a  physician.  Let  no  one  delay.  While 
you  tarry,  suffering  man  grows  weaker.  Let  men 
throw  off  this  dreamy  laziness.  Leave  hashish  to 
the  Turks.  Let  men  labor  for  the  welfare  of  all ; 
let  them  rush  forward,  and  put  themselves  out  of 
breath.  Do  not  be  sparing  of  your  strides.  Let 
nothing  remain  useless.  No  inertia.  What  do 
you  call  dead  nature?  Everything  lives.  The 
duty  of  all  is  to  live.  To  walk,  to  run,  to  fly,  to 
soar,  —  such  is  the  universal  law.  What  are  you 
waiting  for?  Who  stops  you?  Ah!  there  are 
times  when  one  might  wish  to  hear  the  stones  cry 
out  against  the  sluggishness  of  man. 

Sometimes  one  wanders  away  into  the  woods. 
To  whom  does  it  not  sometimes  happen  to  be 
dejected?  —  one  sees  so  many  sad  things.  The 
goal  does  not  appear,  the  results  are  long  in  com- 
ing, a  generation  is  behindhand,  the  work  of  the 
age  languishes.  What!  so  many  sufferings  yet? 
One  would  say  there  had  been  retrogression. 
There  is  everywhere  increase  of  superstition,  of 
cowardice,  of  deafness,  of  blindness,  of  imbecility. 
Brutishness  is  weighted  down  by  penal  laws.  The 
wretched  problem  has  been  set,  —  to  augment 
comfort  by  neglecting  right ;  to  sacrifice  the  supe- 
rior side  of  man  to  the  inferior  side ;  to  yield  up 
principle  to  appetite.  Caesar  takes  charge  of  the 
belly,  I  make  over  to  him  the  brains :  it  is  the  old 
sale  of  the  birthright  for  the  mess  of  lentils.  A 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  381 

little  more,  and  this  fatal  counter-movement  would 
set  civilization  upon  the  wrong  road.  The  swine 
fattening  for  the  knife  would  no  longer  be  the  king, 
but  the  people.  .  .  .  Alas !  this  ugly  expedient 
does  not  even  succeed ;  there  is  no  diminution 
of  wretchedness.  For  the  last  ten  years  —  for  the 
last  twenty  years  —  the  low-water  mark  of  prostitu 
tion,  of  mendicity,  of  crime,  has  been  constantly 
visible;  evil  has  not  fallen  a  single  degree.  Of 
true  education,  of  free  education,  there  is  none. 
Nevertheless,  the  child  needs  to  be  told  that  he  is 
a  man,  and  the  father  that  he  is  a  citizen.  Where 
is  the  promise?  Where  is  the  hope?  Oh!  poor, 
wretched  humanity,  one  is  tempted  to  shout  for 
help  in  the  forest,  one  is  tempted  to  claim  sup- 
port and  material  assistance  from  vast  and  sombre 
Nature.  Can  this  mysterious  union  of  forces  be 
indifferent  to  progress?  We  supplicate,  we  call, 
we  lift  our  hands  toward  the  shadow.  We  listen, 
wondering  if  the  rustlings  will  become  voices. 
The  duty  of  the  springs  and  streams  should  be  to 
babble  forth  the  word  "  Forward  !  "  and  one  could 
wish  to  hear  the  nightingales  sing  new  Marseil- 
laises. 

But,  after  all,  these  seasons  of  halting  have  in 
them  nothing  but  what  is  normal.  Discourage- 
ment would  be  weakness.  There  are  halts,  rests, 
breathing-times  in  the  march  of  nations,  as  there 
are  winters  in  the  progress  of  the  seasons.  The 
gigantic  step,  '89,  is  none  the  less  a  fact.  To 
despair  would  be  absurd,  but  to  stimulate  is 
necessary. 

To  stimulate,  to  press,  to  chide,  to  awaken,  to 


382  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

suggest,  to  inspire, — these  are  the  functions  which, 
fulfilled  everywhere  by  writers,  impress  on  the 
literature  of  this  century  so  marked  a  stamp  of 
power  and  originality.  To  remain  faithful  to  all 
the  laws  of  art,  while  combining  them  with  the  law 
of  progress,  —  such  is  the  problem  triumphantly 
solved  by  so  many  noble  and  lofty  minds. 

Thence  the  word  "  Deliverance,"  shining  aloft  in 
the  light  as  if  it  were  written  on  the  very  brow  of 
the  Ideal. 

The  Revolution  is  France  sublimated. 

There  came  a  day  when  France  entered  the  fur- 
nace, —  the  furnace  breeds  wings  upon  such  warrior 
martyrs,  —  and  from  these  flames  the  giantess  came 
forth  an  archangel.  Throughout  the  earth  to-day  the 
name  of  France  is  revolution ;  and  henceforth  this 
word  " revolution"  will  be  the  name  of  civilization, 
until  it  can  be  replaced  by  the  word  "  harmony." 
Seek  nowhere  else,  I  repeat,  the  starting-point  and 
the  birthplace  of  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Ay!  every  one  of  us,  great  and  small, 
powerful  and  despised,  illustrious  and  obscure,  in 
all  our  works,  good  or  bad,  whatever  they  may 
be,  poems,  dramas,  romances,  history,  philosophy, 
at  the  tribune  of  assemblies  as  before  the  crowds 
of  the  theatre  or  in  solitary  meditation ;  ay ! 
everywhere  and  always ;  ay !  to  combat  violence 
and  imposture ;  ay !  to  restore  those  who  are 
stoned  and  run  down;  ay!  to  draw  logical  con- 
clusions and  to  march  straight  onward ;  ay !  to 
console,  to  succor,  to  relieve,  to  encourage,  to 
teach ;  ay !  to  dress  wounds,  in  hope  of  curing 
them ;  ay !  to  transform  charity  into  fraternity, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  383 

alms  into  helpfulness,  sloth  into  industry,  idleness 
into  usefulness,  to  make  centralized  power  give 
place  to  the  family,  to  convert  iniquity  to  justice, 
the  bourgeois  into  the  citizen,  the  populace  into 
the  people,  the  rabble  into  the  nation,  nations 
into  humanity,  war  into  love,  prejudice  into  free 
inquiry,  frontiers  into  welded  joints,  barriers  into 
thoroughfares,  ruts  into  rails,  vestry-rooms  into 
temples,  the  instinct  of  evil  into  the  desire  of  good, 
life  into  right,  kings  into  men ;  ay !  to  deprive 
religions  of  hell,  and  societies  of  the  prison-den; 
ay  !  to  be  brothers  to  the  wretched,  the  serf,  the 
fellah,  the  poor  laborer,  the  disinherited,  the 
victim,  the  betrayed,  the  conquered,  the  sold, 
the  shackled,  the  sacrificed,  the  harlot,  the  con- 
vict, the  ignorant,  the  savage,  the  slave,  the  negro, 
the  condemned,  the  damned,  —  ay !  for  all  these 
things  we  are  thy  sons,  O  Revolution ! 

Ay!  men  of  genius;  ay!  poets,  philosophers, 
historians ;  ay !  giants  of  that  great  art  of  the 
early  ages  which  is  all  the  light  of  the  past,  —  O 
men  eternal,  the  minds  of  this  day  salute  you,  but 
do  not  follow  you.  Concerning  you  they  hold 
this  law:  Admire  everything,  imitate  nothing. 
Their  function  is  no  longer  yours.  They  have  to 
do  with  the  manhood  of  the  human  race.  The 
hour  of  man's  majority  has  struck.  We  assist,  un- 
der the  full  light  of  the  ideal,  at  the  majestic  union 
of  the  Beautiful  with  the  Useful.  No  present  or 
possible  genius  can  surpass  you,  ye  ancient  men  of 
genius ;  to  equal  you  is  all  the  ambition  allowed : 
but  to  equal  you  we  must  provide  for  the  needs 
of  our  time,  as  ye  supplied  the  wants  of  yours ! 


384  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Writers  who  are  sons  of  the  Revolution  have  a 
holy  task.  Their  epic  must  sob,  O  Homer !  their 
history  must  protest,  O  Herodotus !  their  satire 
must  dethrone,  O  Juvenal !  their  "  thou  shalt  be 
king  "  must  be  said  to  the  people,  O  Shakespeare ! 
their  Prometheus  must  smite  down  Jupiter,  O 
.^Eschylus  !  their  dunghill  must  be  fruitful,  O  Job  ! 
their  hell  must  be  quenched,  O  Dante !  thy  Baby- 
lon crumbles,  O  Isaiah !  theirs  must  be  radiant 
with  light !  They  do  what  you  have  done,  —  they 
contemplate  creation  directly,  they  observe  human- 
ity directly ;  they  accept  as  lodestar  no  refracted 
ray,  not  even  yours.  Like  you,  they  have  for  their 
sole  starting-point,  outside  themselves  the  Uni- 
versal Being,  within  themselves  the  soul ;  as  the 
source  of  their  work  they  have  the  one  source 
whence  flows  Nature  and  whence  flows  Art,  the 
Infinite.  As  the  writer  of  these  lines  declared 
nearly  forty  years  ago : l  "  The  poets  and  the 
writers  of  the  nineteenth  century  have  neither 
masters  nor  models."  No,  in  all  that  vast  and 
sublime  art  of  all  nations,  among  all  those  grand 
creations  of  all  epochs,  they  find  neither  masters 
nor  models,  —  not  even  thee,  O  ^schylus !  not 
even  thee,  O  Dante  !  not  even  thee,  O  Shakespeare  ! 
And  why  have  they  neither  masters  nor  models? 
It  is  because  they  have  one  model,  Man,  and  be- 
cause they  have  one  master,  God. 

1  Preface  to  '  Cromwell.' 


BOOK    III. 

TRUE    HISTORY.— EVERY   ONE    PUT    IN    HIS 
PLACE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

BEHOLD  the  rising  of  the  new  constellation  ! 
It  is  now  certain  that  what  has  hitherto  been 
the  light  of  the  human  race  begins  to  pale  its  inef- 
fectual fire,  and  that  the  ancient  beacons  are  flick- 
ering out. 

From  the  beginning  of  human  tradition  men  of 
force  alone  have  glittered  in  the  empyrean  of  his- 
tory; theirs  was  the  sole  supremacy.  Under  the 
various  names  of  king,  emperor,  chief,  captain, 
prince,  —  epitomized  in  the  word  "  hero,"  —  this 
apocalyptic  group  shone  resplendent.  Terror 
raised  acclamations  to  salute  them,  dripping  with 
the  blood  of  victories.  They  were  followed  by  a 
train  of  tumultuous  flames ;  their  dishevelled  light 
gleamed  portentous  upon  the  children  of  men.  If 
they  lit  the  sky,  it  was  with  flames.  They  seemed 
to  wish  to  extend  their  sway  over  the  Infinite. 
Amid  their  glory  was  heard  the  crash  of  ruin. 
That  red  glare  —  was  it  the  purple?  was  it  blood? 
was  it  shame?  Their  light  suggested  the  face  of 

25 


386  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Cain.  They  hated  one  another.  They  exchanged 
flashing  bolts.  At  times  these  vast  stars  crashed 
together  amid  volleys  of  lightning.  Their  look 
was  furious.  Their  radiance  stretched  into  sword- 
blades.  All  this  hung  terrible  above  us. 

Such  is  the  tragic  glare  that  fills  the  past;  to- 
day it  is  rapidly  waning. 

There  is  decline  in  war,  decline  in  despotism, 
decline  in  theocracy,  decline  in  slavery,  decline  in 
the  scaffold.  The  sword-blade  grows  shorter,  the 
tiara  is  fading  away,  the  crown  is  vulgarized,  war 
is  coming  to  seem  but  madness,  the  plume  is 
abased,  usurpation  is  circumscribed,  shackles  are 
growing  lighter,  the  rack  is  out  of  joint.  The 
antique  violence  of  the  few  against  all,  called  right 
divine,  is  nearing  its  end.  Legitimate  sovereignty 
by  the  grace  of  God,  the  Pharamond  monarchy, 
nations  branded  on  the  shoulder  with  the  fleur-de- 
lys,  the  possession  of  nations  by  the  fact  of  birth, 
rights  over  the  living  acquired  through  a  long  line 
of  dead  ancestors,  —  these  things  still  maintain  the 
struggle  for  existence  here  and  there,  as  at  Naples, 
in  Prussia,  etc. ;  but  it  is  a  struggle,  not  a  battle,  — 
it  is  death  straining  after  life.  A  stammering,  which 
to-morrow  will  be  speech,  and  the  day  after  to- 
morrow a  gospel,  proceeds  from  the  bruised  lips 
of  the  serf,  of  the  vassal,  of  the  laboring-man,  of 
the  pariah.  The  gag  is  breaking  between  the  teeth 
of  the  human  race.  The  patient  human  race  has 
had  enough  of  the  path  of  sorrow,  and  refuses  to 
go  farther. 

Already  certain  kinds  of  despots  are  no  longer 
possible.  The  Pharaoh  is  a  mummy,  the  Sultan  is 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  387 

a  phantom,  the  Cassar  is  a  counterfeit.  This  sty- 
lite  of  the  Trajan  columns  is  anchylosed  upon  its 
pedestal ;  its  head  is  covered  with  the  excrement  of 
the  free  eagles ;  it  is  nonentity  rather  than  glory ; 
this  laurel  garland  is  bound  on  with  grave-clothes. 
The  period  of  the  men  of  violence  is  past.  They 
have  been  glorious,  certainly,  but  with  a  glory  that 
melts  away.  That  species  of  great  men  is  soluble 
in  progress.  Civilization  rapidly  oxidizes  these 
bronzes.  The  French  Revolution  has  already 
brought  the  universal  conscience  to  such  a  degree 
of  maturity  that  the  hero  can  no  longer  be  a  hero 
without  rendering  account;  the  captain  is  dis- 
cussed, the  conqueror  is  inadmissible.  A  Louis 
XIV.  invading  the  Palatinate  would,  in  our  day,  be 
regarded  as  a -robber.  Already  in  the  last  century 
these  truths  began  to  dawn.  Frederick  II.  in  the 
presence  of  Voltaire  felt  and  owned  himself  some- 
thing of  a  brigand.  To  be,  materially,  a  great 
man,  to  be  pompously  violent,  to  reign  by  virtue 
of  the  sword-knot  and  the  cockade,  to  forge  a  legal 
system  upon  the  anvil  of  force,  to  hammer  out 
justice  and  truth  by  dint  of  accomplished  facts,  to 
possess  a  genius  for  brutality,  —  this  is  to  be  great, 
if  you  will,  but  it  is  a  coarse  way  of  being  great. 
Glory  advertised  by  drum-beats  is  met  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulder.  These  sonorous  heroes  have,  up 
to  the  present  day,  deafened  human  reason,  which 
begins  to  be  fatigued  by  this  majestic  uproar. 
Reason  stops  eyes  and  ears  before  those  author- 
ized butcheries  called  battles.  The  sublime  cut- 
throats have  had  their  day.  Henceforth  they  can 
remain  illustrious  and  august  only  in  a  certain  rela- 


388  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

live  oblivion.  Humanity,  grown  older,  asks  to  be 
relieved  of  them.  The  cannon's  prey  has  begun 
to  think,  and,  thinking  twice,  loses  its  admiration 
for  being  made  a  target. 

A  few  figures,  in  passing,  would  do  no  harm. 

Our  subject  includes  all  tragedy.  The  tragedy 
of  the  poets  is  not  the  only  one;  there  is  the 
tragedy  of  the  politicians  and  the  statesmen. 
Would  you  know  how  much  the  latter  tragedy 
costs? 

Heroes  have  an  enemy  named  finance.  For  a 
long  time  the  amount  of  money  paid  for  that  kind 
of  glory  was  unknown.  In  order  to  disguise  the 
total,  there  were  convenient  little  fireplaces,  like 
that  in  which  Louis  XIV.  burned  the  accounts  of 
Versailles.  That  day  the  smoke  of  one  thousand 
millions  of  francs  issued  from  the  royal  stove-pipe. 
The  nations  did  not  so  much  as  look.  Nowadays 
the  nations  have  one  great  virtue,  —  they  are  stingy. 
They  know  that  prodigality  is  the  mother  of  hu- 
miliation. They  keep  score,  they  understand 
double-entry  book-keeping.  Henceforth  there  is  a 
debit  and  credit  account  with  Warlike  Glory,  which 
is  thus  rendered  impossible. 

The  greatest  warrior  of  modern  times  is  not 
Napoleon,  it  is  Pitt.  Napoleon  waged  war;  Pitt 
created  war.  It  is  Pitt  who  willed  all  the  wars  of 
the  Revolution  and  of  the  Empire.  He  is  their 
fountain-head.  Replace  Pitt  by  Fox,  and  that 
outrageous  battle  of  twenty- three  years  would  be 
deprived  of  its  motive-power ;  there  would  be  no 
coalition.  Pitt  was  the  soul  of  the  coalition ;  and, 
he  dead,  his  soul  still  animated  the  universal  war. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  389 

Here  is  what  Pitt  cost  England  and  the  world; 
we  add  this  bas-relief  to  his  pedestal :  — 

First,  the  expenditure  of  men.  From  1791  to 
1814,  France,  constrained  and  forced,  wrestling 
alone  against  Europe  confederated  by  England, 
expended  in  slaughter  for  military  glory  —  and 
also,  let  us  add,  for  the  defence  of  her  territory  — 
five  millions  of  men ;  that  is,  six  hundred  men  per 
day.  Europe,  including  France,  expended  sixteen 
millions  six  hundred  thousand  men ;  that  is,  two 
thousand  men  destroyed  daily  for  a  period  of 
twenty-three  years. 

Secondly,  the  expenditure  of  money.  Unfortu- 
nately, we  have  no  authentic  account,  except  the 
account  of  England.  From  1791  to  1814,  Eng- 
land, in  order  to  get  France  crushed  by  Europe,  in- 
curred a  debt  of  twenty  milliards  three  hundred 
and  sixteen  millions  four  hundred  and  sixty  thou- 
sand and  fifty-three  francs.  Divide  this  sum  by 
the  number  of  men  killed,  at  the  rate  of  two  thou- 
sand per  day  for  twenty-three  years,  and  you  arrive 
at  the  result  that  each  corpse  stretched  on  the 
field  of  battle  cost  England  alone  fifty  pounds 
sterling. 

Add  the  figures  for  all  Europe,  —  numbers  un- 
known, but  enormous. 

With  these  seventeen  millions  of  men  the  Euro- 
pean population  of  Australia  might  have  been 
formed.  With  the  eight  hundred  millions  of  Eng- 
lish pounds  sterling  shot  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 
the  face  of  the  earth  might  have  been  changed, 
civilization  planted  everywhere,  and  ignorance  and 
poverty  suppressed  throughout  the  world. 


3QO  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

England  pays   eight   hundred   millions  sterling 
for  the  two  statues  of  Pitt  and  of  Wellington. 
It  is  fine  to  have  heroes,  but  it  is  a  costly  luxury. 
Poets  are  less  expensive. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  discharge  of  the  warrior  is  signed.  His 
splendor  is  fading  in  the  distance.  Nimrod  the 
Great,  Cyrus  the  Great,  Sennacherib  the  Great, 
Sesostris  the  Great,  Alexander  the  Great,  Pyrrhus 
the  Great,  Hannibal  the  Great,  Frederick  the 
Great,  Caesar  the  Great,  Timour  the  Great,  Louis 
the  Great,  still  other  Greats,  —  all  this  greatness  is 
passing  away. 

To  think  that  we  indiscriminately  reject  these 
men  would  be  a  mistake.  Five  or  six  of  those 
just  named  have  in  our  eyes  a  legitimate  title  to 
glory;  they  have  even  mingled  some  good  with 
their  havoc ;  a  final  estimate  of  them  is  embarrass- 
ing to  the  thinker  of  absolute  equity,  who  is  forced 
to  weigh  in  almost  equal  scale  the  harmful  and  the 
useful. 

Others  have  been  nothing  but  harmful.  These 
are  numerous,  innumerable  even ;  for  the  masters 
of  the  world  are  legion. 

The  thinker  is  the  weigher ;  clemency  is  his  dis- 
tinction. Let  us  then  admit  that  those  who  have 
done  only  evil  may  plead  one  extenuating  circum- 
stance, —  imbecility. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  391 

They  have  still  another  excuse,  —  the  mental 
condition  of  the  race  at  the  time  of  their  advent; 
the  modifiable  but  obstructive  realities  of  their 
environment. 

Not  men,  but  things,  are  tyrants.  The  true 
tyrants  are  the  frontier,  the  beaten  track,  routine, 
the  blindness  of  fanaticism,  deafness  and  dumbness 
caused  by  diversity  of  language,  dispute  caused  by 
diversity  of  weights  and  measures  and  coin,  hate 
born  of  dispute,  war  born  of  hate.  All  these  ty- 
rants have  a  single  name,  —  Separation.  Division, 
whence  issues  the  Reign,  is  the  despot  in  the 
abstract  state. 

Even  the  tyrants  of  flesh  are  mere  things.  Ca- 
ligula is  much  more  a  fact  than  a  man,  a  result 
rather  than  a  living  being.  The  Roman  proscriber, 
dictator,  or  caesar,  prohibits  fire  and  water  to  the 
vanquished,  —  that  is,  deprives  them  of  life.  One 
day  of  Gelon  represents  twenty  thousand  pro- 
scripts  ;  one  day  of  Tiberius,  thirty  thousand ;  one 
day  of  Sulla,  seventy  thousand.  Vitellius,  being 
ill  one  evening,  sees  a  house  lighted  up  for  a 
merry-making.  "  Do  they  think  me  dead  ?  "  says 
Vitellius.  It  is  Junius  Blesus  supping  with  Tus- 
cus  Caecina.  The  Emperor  sends  a  cup  of  poison  to 
these  drinkers,  that,  by  the  fatal  conclusion  of  too 
merry  a  night,  they  may  feel  that  Vitellius  still 
lives.1  Otho  and  this  Vitellius  make  friendly  ex- 
changes of  assassins.  Under  the  Caesars,  to  die 
in  one's  bed  is  a  marvel.  Piso,  to  whom  this  hap- 
pened, is  remarked  for  this  eccentricity.  Valerius 

1  "  Reddendam  pro  intempestiva  licentia  mcestam  et  funebrem 
noctem  qua  sentiat  vivere  Vitellium  et  imperare." 


392  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Asiaticus  has  a  garden  that  pleases  the  Emperor ; 
Statilius  a  face  that  displeases  the  Empress :  trea- 
son !  Valerius  is  strangled  for  having  a  garden, 
and  Statilius  for  having  a  face.  Basil  II.,  Emperor 
of  the  East,  captures  fifteen  thousand  Bulgarians ; 
he  divides  them  into  bands  of  a  hundred  each,  and 
puts  out  the  eyes  of  all  save  one  in  each  band. 
This  one  leads  his  ninety-nine  blind  comrades 
home  to  Bulgaria.  History  characterizes  Basil  II. 
as  follows:  "  He  loved  glory  too  much"  (Delan- 
dine).  Paul  of  Russia  utters  this  axiom:  "No 
man  possesses  power  except  whom  the  Emperor 
addresses,  and  his  power  continues  only  so  long  as 
the  word  he  hears."  Philip  V.  of  Spain,  so  fero- 
ciously calm  at  the  auto-da-fe,  is  stricken  with 
fright  at  the  thought  of  changing  his  shirt,  and 
lies  in  bed  six  months  at  a  time  without  washing 
and  without  trimming  his  nails,  for  fear  of  being 
poisoned  by  the  scissors,  or  by  the  water  in  his 
basin,  or  by  his  shirt,  or  by  his  shoes.  Ivan, 
grandfather  of  Paul,  puts  a  woman  to  the  rack 
before  admitting  her  to  his  bed;  hangs  a  bride 
and  sets  the  bridegroom  on  guard  to  keep  the  rope 
from  being  cut;  has  the  father  executed  by  the 
son ;  invents  a  method  of  sawing  men  in  two  with 
a  cord ;  burns  Bariatinsky  by  a  slow  fire,  and,  deaf 
to  his  victim's  shrieks,  adjusts  the  firebrands  with 
the  end  of  his  stick.  Peter  aspires  to  excel  as  an 
executioner;  he  practises  the  art  of  decapitation. 
At  first  he  can  cut  off  but  a  trifle  of  five  heads  a 
day;  by  strict  application,  however,  he  becomes 
expert  enough  to  cut  off  twenty-five.  What  an 
accomplishment  for  a  Czar,  to  be  able  to  tear  out 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  393 

a  woman's  breast  with  a  stroke  of  the  knout ! 
What  are  all  these  monsters?  Symptoms,  angry 
pustules,  pus  issuing  from  an  unhealthy  body. 
They  are  hardly  more  responsible'than  the  sum  of 
a  column  is  responsible  for  the  figures.  Basil,  Ivan, 
Philip,  Paul,  and  the  rest,  are  the  product  of  the 
vast  environing  stupidity.  The  Greek  clergy  hav- 
ing, for  example,  this  maxim,  "  Who  could  make 
us  judges  of  those  who  are  our  masters?  "  it  fol- 
lows as  a  matter  of  course  that  a  Czar,  this  same 
Ivan,  should  sew  an  archbishop  in  a  bearskin  and 
have  him  eaten  by  dogs.  It  is  right  that  the  Czar 
amuse  himself.  Under  Nero,  the  man  whose 
brother,  has  been  put  to  death  goes  to  the  temple 
to  give  thanks  to  the  gods;  under  Ivan,  an  im- 
paled boyard  employs  his  death-agony  of  twenty- 
four  hours  in  repeating :  "  O  Lord,  protect  the 
Czar !  "  The  Princess  Sanguzko  comes  weeping 
and  upon  her  knees  to  present  a  petition  to  Nicho- 
las; she  begs  mercy  for  her  husband,  she  im- 
plores the  master  to  spare  Sanguzko  —  a  Pole  guilty 
of  loving  Poland  —  the  terrible  journey  to  Siberia. 
Nicholas  mutely  listens,  takes  the  petition,  and 
writes  at  the  bottom  the  words,  "  On  foot."  Then 
Nicholas  goes  into  the  street,  and  the  people  throw 
themselves  on  the  ground  to  kiss  his  boot.  What 
can  you  say  ?  Nicholas  is  mad,  his  people  im- 
bruted.  From  the  khan  comes  the  knez,  from  the 
knez  the  tzar,  from  the  tzar  the  czar,  —  a  series  of 
phenomena  rather  than  a  lineage  of  men.  What  is 
more  logical  than  that  after  this  Ivan  should  come 
this  Peter,  after  Peter,  Nicholas,  after  Nicholas, 
Alexander  ?  You  all  desire  it  more  or  less.  The 


394  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

tortured  consent  to  the  rack.  You  have  yourselves 
made  u  this  Czar,  half  putrefied,  half  frozen,"  as 
says  Madame  de  Stael.  To  be  a  nation,  to  be  a 
force,  and  to  witness  these  things,  is  to  approve 
them.  To  be  present  is  to  assent.  He  who  as- 
sists at  the  crime  assists  the  crime.  The  presence 
of  the  inert  is  an  encouraging  sign  of  abjection. 

Let  it  be  added  that,  even  before  the  commission 
of  the  crime,  some  pre-existing  corruption  has 
given  rise  to  the  complicity;  some  foul  fermenta- 
tion of  original  baseness  engenders  the  oppressor. 

The  wolf  is  the  fact  of  the  forest.  He  is  the 
wild  fruit  of  the  defenceless  solitude.  Group  and 
combine  silence,  darkness,  ease  of  conquest,  mon- 
strous infatuation,  abundance  of  prey,  security  in 
murder,  the  connivance  of  all  present,  weakness, 
want  of  weapons,  abandonment,  isolation,  —  from 
the  point  of  intersection  of  all  these  things  springs 
the  ferocious  beast.  A  gloomy  region,  where  no 
cries  for  succor  can  be  heard,  produces  the  tiger. 
A  tiger  is  blindness  armed  and  hungry.  Is  it  a 
creature  ?  Hardly.  The  beast's  claw  is  no  more 
conscious  than  the  thorn  of  the  plant.  The  fatal 
condition  of  things  brings  forth  the  unconscious 
organism.  In  point  of  personality,  and  apart  from 
the  power  of  killing  for  a  living,  the  tiger  does  not 
exist.  If  Mourawieff  thinks  himself  some  one,  he 
is  mistaken. 

Bad  men  spring  from  bad  things ;  hence,  let  us 
correct  the  things. 

And  here  we  return  to  our  starting-point  : 
the  extenuating  circumstance  of  despotism  is  — 
idiocy. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  395 

We  have  just  pleaded  this  extenuating  circum- 
stance. 

The  idiotic  despots,  a  legion,  are  the  mob  of  the 
purple ;  but  beyond  and  above  them,  at  the  im- 
measurable distances  separating  that  which  shines 
from  that  which  stagnates,  are  the  despots  of 
genius. 

Among  them  are  captains,  conquerors,  strong 
men  of  war,  civilizers  by  force,  ploughmen  of  the 
sword. 

These  we  have  just  now  recalled.  The  really 
great  among  them  are  Cyrus,  Sesostris,  Alexander, 
Hannibal,  Caesar,  Charlemagne,  Napoleon;  and, 
with  the  restrictions  mentioned,  we  admire  them. 

But  we  admire  them  on  condition  of  their  disap- 
pearance. 

Make  room  for  better,  greater  men ! 

Are  these  greater,  these  better  men  anything 
new?  No.  Their  line  is  as  ancient  as  the  other, 
—  more  ancient,  perhaps,  for  the  thought  must  have 
preceded  the  deed,  and  the  thinker  goes  before  the 
fighter ;  but  their  place  was  taken,  —  taken  by 
violence.  This  usurpation  is  about  to  cease;  the 
thinker's  hour  has  struck  at  last,  his  predominance 
becomes  evident.  Civilization,  returning  to  its 
truer  vision,  recognizes  him  as  its  sole  founder; 
the  brightness  of  his  line  outshines  the  rest;  the 
future,  like  the  past,  belongs  to  him ;  and  his  line  it 
is  that  God  will  henceforward  establish. 


396  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IT  is  evident  that  history  must  be  re-written. 
Up  to  the  present  time  it  has  nearly  always  been 
written  from  the  petty  standpoint  of  fact;  it  is 
time  to  write  it  from  the  standpoint  of  principle. 
And  this  under  penalty  of  becoming  null  and 
void. 

Royal  deeds,  warlike  uproar,  coronations,  the 
marriage,  baptism,  and  mourning  of  princes,  exe- 
cutions and  festivals,  the  splendor  of  one  crushing 
all,  the  insolence  of  regal  birth,  the  prowess  of 
sword  and  axe,  great  empires,  heavy  taxes,  the 
tricks  which  chance  plays  chance,  the  world  swayed 
by  the  haps  of  the  first  best  head,  —  provided  it  be 
a  crowned  head ;  the  destiny  of  a  century  changed 
by  a  lance  thrust  by  a  giddy  fellow  against  the 
skull  of  an  imbecile ;  Louis  XIV.'s  majestic  fistula 
in  ano ;  the  grave  words  of  the  dying  Emperor 
Matthias  to  his  physician,  who  was  groping  under 
his  coverlet  to  feel  his  pulse  for  the  last  time: 
"  Erras,  amice,  hoc  est  membrum  nostrum  imperi- 
ale  sacrocaesareum ;  "  Cardinal  Richelieu,  in  the 
disguise  of  a  shepherd,  performing  a  castanet  dance 
before  the  Queen  of  France  in  the  little  villa  of  the 
Rue  de  Gaillon;  Hildebrand  completed  by  Cisne- 
ros  ;  the  little  dogs  of  Henri  III.  ;  the  various 
Potemkins  of  Catherine  II.,  —  here  OrlofT,  there 
Godoy,  etc. ;  a  great  tragedy  with  a  paltry  intrigue, 
—  such,  down  to  our  own  day,  was  history,  oscilla- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  397 

ting  between  throne  and  altar,  giving  one  ear  to 
Dangeau,  the  other  to  Dom  Calmet,  sanctimonious 
rather  than  severe,  not  comprehending  the  real 
transitions  from  age  to  age,  incapable  of  distin- 
guishing the  turning-points  of  civilization,  exhibit- 
ing the  human  race  as  climbing  up  by  ladders  of 
stupid  dates,  learned  in  puerilities  while  ignorant 
of  law,  of  justice,  and  of  truth,  —  a  history  modelled 
rather  upon  Le  Ragois  than  upon  Tacitus. 

So  true  is  this  that  Tacitus  has,  in  our  time,  been 
made  the  object  of  an  official  requisition. 

We  are  not  to  be  weary  of  repeating  the  fact  that 
Tacitus  is,  like  Juvenal,  Suetonius,  and  Lampridius, 
the  object  of  special  and  well-earned  hatred.  The 
day  when  the  professors  of  rhetoric  in  the  col- 
leges place  Juvenal  above  Virgil,  and  Tacitus  above 
Bossuet,  will  be  the  morrow  of  humanity's  day  of 
deliverance.  Before  this  happens,  all  forms  of  op- 
pression shall  have  disappeared,  —  from  the  slave- 
dealer  to  the  Pharisee,  from  the  cabin  where  the 
slave  weeps,  to  the  chapel  where  the  eunuch  sings. 
Cardinal  du  Perron,  who  received  for  Henri  IV. 
the  strokes  of  the  Pope's  staff,  was  kind  enough  to 
say:  "I  despise  Tacitus." 

Down  to  the  present  time,  history  has  been  a 
courtier. 

The  double  identification  of  the  king  with  the 
nation  and  with  God,  is  the  work  of  this  courtly 
history.  The  Grace  of  God  begets  the  Right  Di- 
vine. Louis  XIV.  declares :  "  I  am  the  state." 
Madame  du  Barry,  a  plagiarist  of  Louis  XIV., 
gives  to  Louis  XV.  the  name  of  France ;  and  the 
pompously  haughty  saying  of  the  great  Asiatic 


398  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

King  of  Versailles  ends  with  the  words :  "  France, 
thy  coffee  is  going  to  the  devil !  " 

Bossuet  wrote  without  winking,  although  palli- 
ating the  facts  here  and  there,  the  frightful  legend 
of  the  crime-laden  thrones  of  antiquity ;  and,  apply- 
ing to  the  surface  of  things  his  vague  theocratic 
declamation,  he  satisfies  himself  with  this  formula : 
"God  holds  in  his  hand  the  heart  of  kings."  Such 
is  not  the  case,  for  two  reasons,  —  God  has  no  hand, 
and  kings  have  no  heart.  But  of  course  we  are 
speaking  of  the  kings  of  Assyria  only. 

This  elder  History  is  a  good  old  dame  to  princes. 
When  a  Royal  Highness  says,  "  History,  do  not 
look  this  way,"  she  shuts  her  eyes.  With  the  face 
of  a  harlot,  she  has  imperturbably  denied  the 
dreadful  skull-crushing  helmet  with  its  inner  spike, 
intended  by  the  Archduke  of  Austria  for  the  Swiss 
magistrate,  Gundoldingen.  This  instrument  is  to- 
day hanging  upon  a  nail  in  the  town-hall  of  Lucerne, 
—  any  one  can  see  it  for  himself;  but  History  denies 
it  still.  Moreri  calls  the  massacre  of  Saint  Bar- 
tholomew "  a  disturbance."  Chaudon,  another  bi- 
ographer, thus  characterizes  the  author  of  the 
witticism  for  Louis  XV.  cited  above :  "  A  lady 
of  the  court,  Madame  du  Barry."  History  accepts 
as  an  attack  of  apoplexy  the  mattress  under  which 
John  II.  of  England  smothers  the  Duke  of  Glouces- 
ter at  Calais.1  Why,  in  his  coffin  at  the  Escurial, 
is  the  head  of  the  Infante  Don  Carlos  severed  from 
the  trunk?  The  father, Philip  II.,  replies :  "Because, 
the  Infante  having  died  a  natural  death,  the  coffin 
when  made  was  found  too  short,  and  the  head  had 

1  So  in  the  original.     Richard  II.  is  probably  meant.  — TR. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  399 

to  be  cut  off."  History  blandly  accepts  this  coffin 
story.  But  that  the  father  should  have  had  his 
son  beheaded,  —  out  upon  it !  Only  demagogues 
would  say  such  things. 

The  ingenuousness  with  which  History  glorifies 
the  fact,  whatever  and  however  impious  it  be, 
appears  nowhere  better  than  in  Cantemir  and 
Karamsin,  —  the  one  the  Turkish,  the  other  the 
Russian  historian.  The  Ottoman  fact  and  the 
Muscovite  fact  evince,  when  confronted  and  com- 
pared, the  Tartar  identity.  Moscow  is  no  less 
darkly  Asiatic  than  Stamboul.  Ivan  bears  sway 
over  the  one  as  Mustapha  over  the  other.  Be- 
tween this  Christianity  and  this  Mahometanism  the 
distinction  is  imperceptible.  The  pope  is  brother 
to  the  ulema,  the  boyard  to  the  pasha,  the  knout 
to  the  cord,  and  the  moujik  to  the  mute.  To  the 
passers  in  the  streets  there  is  little  to  choose  between 
Selim  who  transfixes  them  with  arrows,  and  Basil 
who  lets  bears  loose  upon  them.  Cantemir,  a  man 
of  the  South,  a  former  Moldavian  hospodar  and 
long  a  Turkish  subject,  feels,  although  he  has 
passed  over  to  the  Russians,  that  in  deifying  des- 
potism he  does  not  displease  the  Czar  Peter;  and 
he  prostrates  his  metaphors  before  the  sultans. 
This  grovelling  is  Oriental,  and  somewhat  Occi- 
dental too.  The  sultans  are  divine,  their  scimitar 
is  sacred,  their  dagger  sublime,  their  extermina- 
tions magnanimous,  their  parricides  good.  They 
call  themselves  clement,  as  the  Furies  call  them- 
selves Eumenides.  The  blood  they  shed  smokes 
with  an  odor  of  incense  in  Cantemir,  and  the  pro- 
longed assassination  which  constitutes  their  reign 


400  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

expands  into  an  aureole.  They  massacre  the  peo- 
ple for  the  people's  good.  When  some  padisha, 
I  forget  which,  —  Tiger  IV.  or  Tiger  VI.,  — 
strangles  his  nineteen  young  brothers  one  after 
another,  as  they  run  terrified  about  the  room,  the 
historian  of  Turkish  birth  declares  that  "  this  was 
a  wise  execution  of  the  law  of  the  empire."  The 
Russian  historian  Karamsin  is  no  less  tender  to 
the  czar  than  Cantemir  to  the  sultan.  Neverthe- 
less it  must  be  admitted  that,  compared  with  Can- 
temir, Karamsin's  fervor  is  lukewarm.  Thus  Peter 
is  glorified  by  Karamsin  for  killing  his  brother 
Alexis ;  but  the  tone  is  apologetic.  This  is  not 
the  pure  and  simple  acceptance  of  Cantemir,  who 
is  more  natural  in  the  kneeling  posture.  The  Rus- 
sian historian  only  admires;  the  Turkish  historian 
adores.  In  Karamsin  there  is  no  fire,  no  dash ; 
his  enthusiasm  is  sluggish,  his  deifications  want 
unction,  his  good-will  is  congealed,  his  caresses  are 
numb ;  his  flattery  is  not  first-rate.  The  climate 
evidently  counts  for  something,  —  Karamsin  is  a 
half-frozen  Cantemir. 

Such  is  the  history  dominant  to  this  day;  it 
passes  from  Bossuet  to  Karamsin  by  way  of  the 
Abbe  Pluche.  This  history  is  based  upon  the  prin- 
ciple of  obedience.  Obedience  to  whom?  To 
Success.  Heroes  are  well  treated,  but  kings  are 
preferred.  To  reign  is  to  be  successful  every 
morning.  To-morrow  belongs  to  the  king.  He 
is  solvent.  It  is  foreseen  that  a  hero  may  turn  out 
ill;  in  that  case  he  is  only  a  usurper.  Before 
this  history,  genius  itself,  were  it  the  highest 
expression  of  force  served  by  intelligence,  is  held 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  401 

to  continual  success :  if  it  trips,  ridicule ;  if  it 
falls,  insult.  After  Marengo,  you  are  the  hero  of 
Europe,  the  man  of  Providence,  anointed  of  the 
Lord ;  after  Austerlitz,  Napoleon  the  Great ;  after 
Waterloo,  the  Corsican  ogre.  It  was  an  ogre 
that  the  Pope  anointed. 

Nevertheless,  in  consideration  of  the  services  ren- 
dered, impartial  Father  Loriquet  dubs  you  marquis. 

The  man  of  our  time  who  has  best  swept  this 
astonishing  scale,  from  the  hero  of  Europe  to  the 
ogre  of  Corsica,  is  Fontanes,  —  the  man  chosen 
during  so  many  years  to  cultivate,  develop,  and 
direct  the  moral  sense  of  youth. 

This  history  keeps  alive  the  notions  of  legiti- 
macy, divine  right,  denial  of  universal  suffrage ; 
it  regards  the  throne  as  a  fief,  and  nations  as  en- 
tailed estates.  The  hangman  figures  in  it  largely, 
—  Joseph  de  Maistre  identifies  him,  delightfully 
enough,  with  the  king.  This  kind  of  history  is 
called  in  England  "  loyal."  The  English  aristoc- 
racy, which  is  subject  to  these  happy  inspirations, 
has  bethought  itself  to  give  to  a  political  opinion 
the  name  of  a  virtue,  Instrumentum  regni.  In 
England,  to  be  a  royalist  is  to  be  loyal ;  a  democrat 
is  disloyal,  —  a  variety  of  the  dishonest  man. 
This  man  believes  in  the  people?  For  shame! 
He  would  like  universal  suffrage,  —  he  is  a  Chart- 
ist; are  you  sure  of  his  honesty?  There  goes  a 
republican :  beware  of  pickpockets !  This  method 
is  ingenious.  Society  in  general  is  cleverer  than 
Voltaire ;  the  English  aristocracy  is  shrewder  than 
Macchiavelli. 

The  king  pays,  the  people  do  not  pay :  such  is 
26 


4O2  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

pretty  much  the  whole  secret  of  this  species  of 
history.  It  also  has  its  sale  of  indulgences. 

Honor  and  profit  are  divided :  the  master  gets 
the  honor,  the  historian  the  profit.  Procopius  is 
a  prefect,  and,  what  is  more,  Illustrious  by  decree, 
—  a  fact  which  in  no  wise  debars  him  from  being  a 
traitor;  Bossuet  is  a  bishop;  Fleury  is  prelate- 
prior  of  Argenteuil;  Karamsin  is  a  senator;  Can- 
temir  is  a  prince.  Best  of  all  is  to  be  paid  succes- 
sively by  For  and  by  Against,  and,  like  Fontanes, 
to  be  made  a  senator  for  idolatry,  and  a  peer  of 
France  for  spitting  upon  the  idol. 

What  is  going  on  at  the  Louvre?  at  the  Vatican? 
in  the  Seraglio?  at  Buen  Retire?  at  Windsor?  at 
Schonbrunn?  at  Potsdam?  at  the  Kremlin?  at 
Oranienbaum?  That  is  the  question.  The  hu- 
man race  is  interested  in  nothing  outside  of  these 
half-score  of  houses,  of  which  history  is  the 
door-keeper. 

Nothing  that  relates  to  war,  to  the  warrior,  to 
the  prince,  to  the  throne,  to  the  court,  is  trifling. 
He  who  lacks  a  talent  for  solemn  puerility  cannot 
be  a  historian.  A  question  of  etiquette,  a  hunt,  a 
gala,  a  grand  levee,  a  retinue,  Maximilian's  triumph, 
the  number  of  carriages  bearing  ladies  to  the  King's 
camp  before  Mans,  the  necessity  of  having  vices 
in  conformity  with  his  Majesty's  foibles,  the  clocks 
of  Charles  V.,  the  locks  of  Louis  XVI. ;  how  Louis 
XV.  announced  himself  to  be  a  good  king  by  refus- 
ing a  broth  before  his  coronation ;  and  how  the 
Prince  of  Wales  sits  in  the  House  of  Lords  not  as 
Prince  of  Wales  but  as  Duke  of  Cornwall ;  and 
•how  drunken  Augustus  made  Prince  Lubormirsky, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  403 

Starost  of  Kasimiroff,  under-cupbearer  to  the 
Crown ;  and  how  Charles  of  Spain  gave  the  com- 
mand of  the  army  of  Catalonia  to  Pimentel,  be- 
cause the  Pimentels  had  been  lords  of  Benavente 
since  1308;  and  how  Frederick  of  Brandenburg 
granted  a  fief  of  forty  thousand  crowns  to  a  hunts- 
man who  had  enabled  him  to  kill  a  fine  stag ;  and 
how  Louis  Antoine,  Grand  Master  of  the  Teutonic 
Order  and  Prince  Palatine,  died  at  Liege  of  disap- 
pointment at  not  having  been  able  to  get  himself 
elected  bishop ;  and  how  the  Princess  Borghese, 
dowager  of  Mirandola,  and  related  to  the  Pope, 
married  the  Prince  of  Cellamare,  son  of  the  Duke 
of  Giovenazzo ;  and  how  my  Lord  Seaton,  a  Mont- 
gomery, followed  James  II.  to  France;  and  how 
the  Emperor  ordered  the  Duke  of  Mantua,  a  vassal 
of  the  Empire,  to  drive  the  Marquis  Amorati  from 
his  court;  and  how  there  came  to  be  always  two 
Cardinals  Barberini  living,  etc.,  —  all  that  is  impor- 
tant business.  A  snub-nose  is  made  historic.  Two 
little  meadows  adjacent  to  the  ancient  Mark  and 
to  the  Duchy  of  Zell  are  memorable  for  having 
almost  caused  a  war  between  England  and  Prussia. 
In  fact  the  skill  of  the  governing  and  the  apathy 
of  the  obeying  classes  have  so  arranged  and 
confused  affairs  that  all  these  regal  nothings 
take  their  places  in  human  destiny,  and  war  and 
peace,  the  movement  of  armies  and  fleets,  the  re- 
coil or  the  advance  of  civilization,  depend  upon 
Queen  Anne's  cup  of  tea  or  the  Dey  of  Algiers' 
fly-flap. 

History  stands  behind  the  royal  seat,  registering 
these  fooleries. 


4C>4  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Knowing  so  many  things,  it  is  quite  natural  that 
it  should  be  ignorant  of  some.  Should  you  be  so 
curious  as  to  ask  it  the  name  of  the  English  mer- 
chant who  first,  in  1612,  entered  China  from  the 
north;  of  the  glass-workman  who  first,  in  1663, 
established  a  manufactory  of  crystal  glass ;  of  the 
citizen  who,  under  Charles  VIII.,  carried  in  the 
States-General  at  Tours  the  fruitful  principle  of 
the  elective  magistracy,  —  a  principle  subsequently 
adroitly  suppressed;  of  the  pilot  who,  in  1405, 
discovered  the  Canary  Isles;  of  the  Byzantine 
lute-maker  who,  in  the  eighth  century,  by  the 
invention  of  the  organ,  gave  to  music  its  most 
sonorous  voice;  of  the  Campanian  mason  who 
originated  the  clock  by  placing  the  first  sun-dial 
upon  the  temple  of  Ouirinus  at  Rome;  of  the 
Roman  toll-collector  who,  by  the  construction  of 
the  Appian  Way  in  the  year  312  B.  C.,  invented  the 
paving  of  towns ;  of  the  Egyptian  carpenter  who 
conceived  the  dove-tail,  —  one  of  the  keys  of  archi- 
tecture, found  under  the  obelisk  of  Luxor;  of  the 
Chaldaean  goatherd  who,  by  the  observation  of  the 
signs  of  the  zodiac,  founded  astronomy  and  gave  a 
starting-point  to  Anaximenes ;  of  the  Corinthian 
calker  who,  nine  years  before  the  first  Olympiad, 
calculated  the  force  of  the  triple  lever,  conceived 
the  trireme,  and  built  a  towboat  two  thousand  six 
hundred  years  before  the  first  steamboat ;  of  the 
Macedonian  ploughman  who  discovered  the  first 
gold-mine  on  Mount  Pangaeus,  —  these  names 
history  cannot  give  you ;  these  people  are  un- 
known to  history. 

Who  are  these?    A  ploughman,  a  calker,  a  goat- 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  405 

herd,  a  carpenter,  a  toll-gatherer,  a  mason,  a  lute- 
maker,  a  sailor,  a  burgher,  and  a  merchant.  The 
dignity  of  history  must  be  preserved. 

In  Nuremberg,  near  the  Aegidienplatz,  in  a 
room  on  the  second  floor  of  a  house  facing  the 
church  of  St.  Aegidius,  there  lies  upon  an  iron 
tripod  a  wooden  globe  twenty  inches  in  diameter, 
covered  with  a  dingy  vellum  streaked  with  lines 
which  were  once  red  and  yellow  and  green.  Upon 
this  globe  is  a  sketch  of  the  earth's  divisions  as 
they  could  be  conceived  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
At  the  twenty-fourth  degree  of  latitude,  under  the 
sign  of  Cancer,  there  is  vaguely  indicated  a  kind  of 
island  called  "  Antilia,"  which  attracted,  one  day, 
the  attention  of  two  men.  The  one  who  had  made 
the  globe  and  drawn  Antilia,  showed  this  island  to 
the  other,  laid  his  finger  upon  it,  and  said,  "  There 
it  is."  The  man  looking  on  was  Christopher  Co- 
lumbus ;  the  man  who  said,  "  There  it  is,"  was 
Martin  Behaim.  Antilia  was  America.  Of  Fer- 
nando Cortez,  who  ravaged  America,  history- 
speaks ;  but  not  of  Martin  Behaim,  who  guessed 
its  existence. 

If  a  man  has  "  cut  to  pieces  "  his  fellow-men,  if 
he  has  "  put  them  to  the  edge  of  the  sword,"  if  he 
has  "  made  them  bite  the  dust,"  —  horrible  phrases, 
which  have  grown  hideously  familiar,  —  whatever 
this  man's  name  may  be,  you  will  find  it  in  history. 
Search  there  for  the  name  of  him  who  invented  the 
compass,  —  you  will  not  find  it ! 

In  1747,  in  the  full  tide  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, under  the  very  eyes  of  the  philosophers,  the 
battles  of  Raucoux  and  of  Laffeld,  the  siege  of  the 


406  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Sas  van  Ghent,  and  the  taking  of  Bergen-op-Zoom, 
overshadow  and  hide  the  sublime  discovery  of 
electricity,  which  is  to-day  effecting  the  trans- 
formation of  the  world. 

Voltaire  himself  at  about  that  time  is  distractedly 
celebrating  who  knows  what  exploit  of  Trajan 
(read,  Louis  XV.). 

From  this  history  is  evolved  a  kind  of  public 
stupidity.  This  history  is  almost  everywhere 
superposed  upon  education.  If  you  doubt  this, 
see,  among  others,  the  publications  of  Perisse 
Brothers,  —  designed,  says  a  parenthesis,  for  pri- 
mary schools. 

It  makes  us  laugh  if  a  prince  assumes  the  name 
of  an  animal.  We  ridicule  the  Emperor  of  China 
for  having  himself  styled  "  His  Majesty  the  Dra- 
gon," and  we  ourselves  complacently  talk  of 
"  Monseigneur  the  Dauphin." 

History  is  domestic;  the  historian  is  a  mere 
master-of-ceremonies  to  the  centuries.  In  the 
model  court  of  Louis  the  Great  there  are  four 
historians,  as  there  are  four  bedchamber  violinists. 
Lulli  leads  the  latter,  Boileau  the  former. 

In  this  old-fashioned  history  —  the  only  style 
authorized  down  to  1789,  and  classic  in  the  com- 
plete sense  of  the  word  —  the  best  narrators,  even 
the  honest  ones,  of  whom  there  are  a  few,  even 
those  who  think  themselves  free,  remain  mechani- 
cally subordinate,  make  a  patchwork  of  traditions, 
yield  to  the  force  of  habit,  receive  the  countersign 
in  the  antechamber,  go  with  the  crowd  in  accept- 
ing the  stupid  divinity  of  the  coarse  personages  of 
the  foreground,  —  kings,  "  potentates,"  "  pontiffs," 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  407 

soldiers,  —  and,  though  devoutly  believing  them- 
selves historians,  end  by  wearing  the  livery  of 
historiographers,  and  are  lackeys  without  know- 
ing it. 

This  history  is  taught,  imposed,  commanded,  and 
recommended ;  all  young  minds  are  more  or  less 
imbued  with  it.  The  mark  remains ;  their  thought 
suffers  from  it,  recovering  only  with  difficulty; 
school-boys  are  compelled  to  learn  it  by  heart,  and 
I,  who  am  speaking,  was,  as  a  child,  its  victim. 

This  history  contains  everything  except  history, 

—  displays  of  princes,  of  "  monarchs,"  and  of  cap- 
tains.    Of  the  people,  the  laws,  the  manners,  very 
little;     of   letters,   arts,    sciences,    philosophy,  the 
trend  of  universal  thought,  '• —  in  one  word,  of  man, 

—  nothing.     Civilization  is  made  to  date  by  reigns, 
not  by  progress.     Some  king  forms  a  stage.     The 
true  relays,  the  relays  of  great  men,  are  nowhere 
indicated.      It  is  explained  how  Francis  II.   suc- 
ceeds Henri  II.,  how  Charles  IX.  succeeds  Fran- 
cis II.,  and  Henri  III.  Charles   IX.;    but  no  one 
teaches  how  Watt  succeeds  Papin,  and  how  Fulton 
succeeds  Watt.     Behind  the  heavy  upholstery  of 
hereditary   monarchy  the    mysterious    dynasty  of 
genius  is  scarcely  glimpsed.      The  smoky   torch 
upon  the  opaque  facade  of  royal  accessions  hides 
the  starry  light  streaming  down  upon  the  centuries 
from  the  creators  of  civilization.     Not  a  single  one 
of  this   series    of  historians   points    to    the    divine 
lineage  of  human  miracles,  that  applied  logic  of 
Providence ;   not  one  exhibits  the  manner  in  which 
progress    gives    birth   to   progress.      It  would    be 
shameful  not  to  know  that  Philip  IV.  comes  after 


408  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Philip  III.,  and  Charles  II.  after  Philip  IV. ;  but 
that  Descartes  continues  Bacon  and  that  Kant 
continues  Descartes,  that  Las  Casas  continues 
Columbus,  that  Washington  continues  Las  Casas 
and  that  John  Brown  continues  and  rectifies  Wash- 
ington, that  John  Huss  continues  Pelagius,  that 
Luther  continues  John  Huss  and  that  Voltaire 
continues  Luther,  —  it  is  almost  a  scandal  to  be 
aware  of  these  things. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

IT  is  time  to  change  all  this.  It  is  time  that 
men  of  action  should  step  back,  and  that  men  of 
thought  should  take  the  lead.  The  summit  is  the 
head.  Where  thought  is,  there  power  exists.  It 
is  time  that  the  genius  take  precedence  of  the  hero. 
It  is  time  to  render  to  Caesar  the  things  that  are 
Caesar's,  and  to  the  book  the  things  that  belong  to 
the  book.  Such  a  poem,  such  a  drama,  such  a 
novel,  is  doing  more  service  than  all  the  courts  of 
Europe  put  together.  It  is  time  that  history 
should  proportion  itself  to  reality,  that  it  should 
give  every  influence  its  ascertained  value,  that  it 
should  cease  to  thrust  regal  masks  upon  epochs 
made  in  the  image  of  poets  and  of  philosophers. 
To  whom  belongs  the  eighteenth  century,  —  to 
Louis  XV.,  or  to  Voltaire?  Compare  Versailles 
and  Ferney,  and  consider  from  which  of  the  two 
sources  civilization  flows. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  409 

A  century  is  a  formula;  an  epoch  is  an  ex- 
pressed thought.  One  such  thought  expressed, 
Civilization  passes  to  another.  The  centuries  are 
the  phrases  of  Civilization;  what  she  says  here 
she  does  not  repeat  there.  But  these  mysterious 
phrases  are  linked  together ;  logic  —  the  logos  — 
is  within  them,  and  their  series  constitutes  pro- 
gress. In  all  these  phrases,  expressions  of  a  single 
thought,  the  divine  thought,  we  are  slowly  deci- 
phering the  word  Fraternity. 

All  light  is  at  some  point  condensed  into  a 
flame;  likewise  every  epoch  is  condensed  in  a 
man.  The  man  dead,  the  epoch  is  concluded. 
God  turns  over  the  leaf.  Dante  dead,  a  period  is 
placed  at  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century ;  John 
Huss  may  come.  Shakespeare  dead,  a  period  is 
placed  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century.  After 
this  poet,  who  contains  and  epitomizes  all  philoso- 
phy, may  come  the  philosophers,  —  Pascal,  Des- 
cartes, Moliere,  Le  Sage,  Montesquieu,  Rousseau, 
Diderot,  Beaumarchais.  Voltaire  dead,  a  period 
is  placed  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
The  French  Revolution,  that  winding-up  of  the 
first  social  form  of  Christianity,  may  come. 

Each  of  these  various  periods,  which  we  call 
epochs,  has  its  dominant  note.  What  is  this  dom- 
inant, —  a  head  wearing  a  crown,  or  a  head  bearing 
a  thought?  Is  it  an  aristocracy,  or  an  idea?  Make 
your  own  answer.  Consider  where  the  power  lies. 
Weigh  Francis  I.  against  Gargantua;  put  the 
whole  of  chivalry  into  the  balance  with  '  Don 
Quixote.' 

Each  one  to  his  own  place,  therefore.     About 


410  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

face !  And  now  consider  the  centuries  as  they 
are.  In  the  first  rank,  mind  ;  in  the  second,  third, 
twentieth,  soldiers  and  princes.  Down  with  the 
warrior;  the  thinker  retakes  possession  of  the 
pedestal.  Pull  down  Alexander,  and  set  up  Aris- 
totle. Strange  that  to  this  day  people  should  have 
read  the  Iliad  in  such  a  manner  as  to  overshadow 
Homer  by  Achilles ! 

It  is  time,  I  repeat,  to  change  all  this.  The 
initiative,  indeed,  is  taken.  Noble  minds  are  al- 
ready at  work ;  the  future  history  is  approaching ; 
some  superb  partial  rehandlings  exist  as  speci- 
mens; a  general  recasting  is  about  to  take  place. 
Ad  usum  populi.  Compulsory  education  requires 
true  history;  true  history  is  begun,  and  will  be 
made. 

The  old  medals  will  be  re-minted :  that  which 
was  the  reverse  will  become  the  face ;  that  which 
was  the  head  will  become  the  tail ;  Urban  VIII.  will 
be  the  reverse  of  Galileo. 

The  true  profile  of  humanity  will  reappear  upon 
the  various  prints  of  civilization  offered  by  the 
succession  of  the  centuries. 

The  historical  effigy  will  no  longer  be  the  man 
king,  it  will  be  the  man  people. 

No  one  shall  reproach  us  with  failing  to  insist 
that  real  and  veracious  history,  while  pointing  to 
the  real  sources  of  civilization,  will  not  underesti- 
mate the  appreciable  utility  of  the  sceptre-holders 
and  sword-racks  at  certain  moments  and  in  pres- 
ence of  certain  human  conditions.  Wrestling- 
matches  require  some  equality  between  the  two 
combatants;  barbarity  must  sometimes  be  pitted 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  41 1 

against  barbarism.  There  are  cases  of  violent 
progress.  Caesar  is  good  in  Cimmeria,  and  Alex- 
ander in  Asia.  But  to  Alexander  and  to  Caesar 
the  second  rank  suffices. 

The  veracious  history,  the  true  history,  the  de- 
finitive history,  charged  henceforward  with  the 
education  of  that  royal  child,  the  people,  will 
reject  all  fiction,  will  be  wanting  in  complaisance, 
will  logically  classify  phenomena,  will  unravel 
hidden  causes,  will  study,  philosophically  and 
scientifically,  the  successive  disorders  of  humanity, 
and  will  take  less  account  of  great  sabre-strokes 
than  of  great  strokes  of  thought.  The  deeds  of 
the  light  will  form  the  van ;  Pythagoras  will  be  a 
greater  event  than  Sesostris.  We  said  just  now 
that  heroes,  crepuscular  men,  are  relatively  bright 
in  the  darkness ;  but  what  is  a  conqueror  beside  a 
sage?  what  is  the  invasion  of  kingdoms  compared 
with  the  opening  of  the  mind?  The  winners  of 
minds  overshadow  the  winners  of  provinces.  The 
true  conqueror  is  the  man  who  does  the  thinking 
for  others.  In  the  coming  history,  the  slave  y£sop 
and  the  slave  Plautus  will  take  precedence  of 
kings ;  such  a  vagabond  will  outweigh  such  a 
victor,  such  an  actor  will  outweigh  such  an  emperor. 
To  make  what  we  are  saying  obvious  by  examples, 
it  is  certainly  useful  that  a  man  of  power  should 
have  marked  the  period  of  stagnation  between  the 
crumbling  of  the  Latin  world  and  the  outgrowth 
of  the  Gothic  world ;  it  is  useful  that  another  man 
of  power,  following  the  first,  the  shrewd  after  the 
bold,  should  have  outlined,  in  the  form  of  a 
catholic  empire,  the  future  universal  group  of 


4 1 2  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

nations  and  the  wholesome  encroachments  of 
Europe  upon  Africa,  Asia,  and  America.  But  it 
is  still  more  useful  to  have  made  the  '  Divina  Corn- 
media'  and  'Hamlet;  '  no  wicked  deed  is  mingled 
with  these  master-works ;  here  the  account  of  the 
civilizer  bears  no  debit  charge  of  nations  crushed  ; 
and  the  enlargement  of  the  human  mind  being 
taken  as  a  result,  Dante  counts  for  more  than 
Charlemagne,  Shakespeare  for  more  than  Charles 
the  Fifth. 

In  history,  as  it  is  to  be  made  upon  the  pattern 
of  absolute  truth,  that  commonplace  intelligence, 
that  unconscious  and  vulgar  being,  the  "Non  pluri- 
bus  impar,"  the  sultan-sun  of  Marly,  becomes 
merely  the  almost  mechanical  fabricator  of  the 
shelter  required  by  the  thinker  who  wore  the 
theatrical  mask, — of  the  environment  of  ideas  and 
of  men  requisite  for  the  philosophy  of  Alceste. 
Louis  XIV.  is  bed-maker  to  Moliere. 

These  reversals  of  role  will  exhibit  characters 
in  their  true  light;  the  new  historical  optics  will 
map  out  the  still  chaotic  sky  of  civilization ;  per- 
spective, that  geometrical  justice,  will  take  pos- 
session of  the  past,  placing  this  in  the  foreground, 
that  in  the  background ;  every  man  will  resume  his 
real  stature  ;  tiaras,  crowns,  and  other  head-dresses 
will  serve  simply  to  render  dwarfs  ridiculous  ;  stupid 
prostrations  will  disappear.  From  such  readjust- 
ments will  stream  forth  the  right. 

That  great  judge,  We  All,  having  henceforth  as 
a  standard  a  clear  conception  of  that  which  is  ab- 
solute and  of  that  which  is  relative,  the  deductions 
and  restitutions  will  take  place  of  themselves. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  413 

The  innate  moral  sense  of  man  will  find  its  bear- 
ings. It  will  no  longer  be  forced  to  ask  itself 
questions  like  this:  Why  do  people  revere  in  Louis 
XV.,  and  in  the  rest  of  the  royalty,  the  act  for 
which  they  are  at  the  same  moment  burning 
Deschauffours  in  the  Place  de  Greve?  The  author- 
ity of  the  king  will  no  longer  impose  a  false  moral 
weight.  The  facts,  well  balanced,  will  balance  con- 
science well.  A  good  light  will  arise,  mild  to  the 
sons  of  men,  serene,  equitable.  Henceforward 
there  is  to  be  no  interposition  of  clouds  between 
the  truth  and  the  brain  of  man.  Definitive  ascen- 
sion of  the  good,  the  just,  the  beautiful,  to  the 
zenith  of  civilization. 

Nothing  can  escape  the  law  of  simplification. 
By  the  sheer  force  of  things,  the  material  side  of 
events  and  of  men  scales  off  and  vanishes.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  solidity  of  darkness.  What- 
ever the  mass  or  the  block,  every  compound  of 
ashes  —  and  matter  is  nothing  else  —  returns  to 
ashes.  The  idea  of  the  grain  of  dust  is  embodied 
in  the  very  word  "  granite."  Pulverization  is 
inevitable.  All  those  granites,  oligarchy,  aristoc- 
racy, theocracy,  are  the  promised  prey  of  the  four 
winds.  The  ideal  alone  is  indestructible. 

Nothing  is  abiding  but  mind. 

In  this  indefinite  inundation  of  light  called  civili- 
zation, phenomena  of  levelling  and  of  setting  up 
are  taking  place.  The  imperious  dawn  penetrates 
everywhere,  enters  as  master,  and  enforces  obedi- 
ence. The  light  is  working ;  under  the  great  eye 
of  posterity,  before  the  light  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  a  simplification  is  going  on,  the  fungus 


414  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

is  collapsing,  glory  falls  like  the  leaf,  great  names 
are  divided  up.  Take  Moses,  for  example.  In 
Moses  there  are  three  glories,  —  the  captain,  the 
lawgiver,  the  poet.  Of  these  three  men  contained 
in  Moses,  where  is  the  captain  to-day?  In  the 
dark,  with  the  brigands  and  assassins.  Where  is 
the  lawgiver?  Buried  under  the  rubbish  of  dead 
religions.  Where  is  the  poet?  By  the  side  of 
yEschylus. 

The  day  has  an  irresistible  corrosive  power  upon 
the  things  of  night.  Hence  a  new  historic  sky  over 
our  heads.  Hence  a  new  philosophy  of  cause  and 
effect.  Hence  a  new  aspect  of  facts. 

Some  minds,  however,  whose  honest  and  austere 
solicitude  is  not  displeasing,  object:  "You  have 
said  that  men  of  genius  form  a  dynasty;  we  are 
as  unwilling  to  submit  to  this  dynasty  as  to  any 
other."  This  is  to  misunderstand,  to  be  fright- 
ened by  a  word  when  the  thought  is  reassuring. 
The  very  law  which  requires  that  mankind  should 
have  no  owners,  requires  that  it  should  have  guides. 
To  be  enlightened  is  the  reverse  of  being  subjected. 
Between  "  Homo  sum  "  and  "  I  am  the  state "  is 
the  whole  space  between  fraternity  and  tyranny. 
The  march  forward  requires  a  directing  hand ;  to 
rebel  against  the  pilot  scarcely  advances  the  ship ; 
one  does  not  see  what  would  be  gained  by  throw- 
ing Columbus  overboard.  The  word,  "  This  way," 
never  humiliated  the  man  who  was  seeking  the 
road.  At  night,  I  accept  the  authority  of  the 
torches.  Furthermore,  there  is  little  that  is  op- 
pressive in  the  dynasty  of  genius,  whose  kingdom 
is  Dante's  exile,  whose  palace  is  Cervantes'  donjon, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  415 

whose  budget  is  Isaiah's  wallet,  whose  throne  is 
Job's  dunghill,  whose  sceptre  is  Homer's  staff. 
Let  us  resume. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MANKIND  no  longer  owned,  but  guided:  such 
is  the  new  aspect  of  things. 

Henceforward  history  is  bound  to  reproduce  this 
new  aspect  of  things.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  alter 
the  past;  but  that  is  what  history  is  about  to  un- 
dertake. By  lying  ?  No  ;  by  telling  the  truth. 
History  has  been  only  a  picture;  it  is  about  to 
become  a  mirror. 

This  new  reflection  of  the  past  will  modify  the 
future. 

The  former  King  of  Westphalia,  a  man  of  wit, 
was  one  day  examining  an  inkstand  upon  the  table 
of  some  one  we  know.  The  writer  at  whose  house 
Jerome  Bonaparte  was  at  that  moment,  had  brought 
back  from  a  trip  to  the  Alps,  made  in  company 
with  Charles  Nodier  some  years  before,  a  bit  of 
steatitic  serpentine,  carved  and  hollowed  into  an 
inkstand,  which  he  had  purchased  of  a  chamois- 
hunter  of  the  Mer-de-Glace.  Jerome  Bonaparte 
was  looking  at  this.  "What  is  it?"  he  asked. 
"  My  inkstand,"  replied  the  writer.  Then  he 
added  :  "  It  is  steatite.  Admire  Nature,  who 
makes  this  charming  green  stone  out  of  a  little 
dirt  and  oxide."  "I  admire  much  more  the  men," 


41 6  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE, 

responded  Jerome  Bonaparte,  "  who  make  an  ink- 
stand out  of  this  stone." 

For  a  brother  of  Napoleon,  this  was  not  a  bad 
reply;  and  he  should  be  credited  with  it,  for  the 
inkstand  is  to  destroy  the  sword. 

The  diminution  of  the  men  of  war,  of  violence, 
of  prey;  the  indefinite  and  superb  expansion  of 
the  men  of  thought  and  of  peace;  the  entrance 
of  the  real  giants  upon  the  scene  of  action :  this 
is  one  of  the  greatest  facts  of  our  great  era. 

There  is  no  more  sublime  and  pathetic  spectacle, 
—  mankind's  deliverance  from  above,  the  potentates 
put  to  flight  by  the  dreamers,  the  prophet  crushing 
the  hero,  the  sweeping  away  of  violence  by  thought, 
the  heaven  cleansed,  a  majestic  expulsion ! 

Lift  up  your  eyes,  the  supreme  drama  is  enact- 
ing !  The  legions  of  light  are  in  full  pursuit  of  the 
hordes  of  flame. 

The  masters  are  going  out,  the  liberators  are 
coming  in. 

The  hunters  of  men,  the  trailers  of  armies,  Nim- 
rod,  Sennacherib,  Cyrus,  Rameses,  Xerxes,  Cam- 
byses,  Attila,  Genghis  Khan,  Tamerlane,  Alexander, 
Csesar,  Bonaparte,  —  all  these  vast,  ferocious  men 
are  vanishing. 

Slowly  they  flicker  out ;  now  they  touch  the 
horizon ;  mysteriously  the  darkness  attracts  them  ; 
they  have  kinship  with  the  shades,  —  hence  their 
fatal  descent ;  their  resemblance  to  the  other  phe- 
nomena of  night  draws  them  on  to  this  dreadful 
union  with  blind  immensity  —  submersion  of  all 
light.  Oblivion,  that  shadow  of  darkness,  awaits 
them. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE.  417 

They  are  hurled  down,  but  they  remain  formi- 
dable. Insult  not  what  has  been  great.  Hootings 
would  be  misbecoming  at  the  burial  of  heroes ;  the 
thinker  should  remain  grave  in  presence  of  this 
enshrouding.  The  old  glory  abdicates ;  the  strong 
are  lying  down.  Clemency  to  these  vanquished 
conquerors  !  Peace  to  these  fallen  warriors  !  The 
shades  of  the  grave  interpose  between  their  light 
and  ours.  Not  without  a  kind  of  pious  terror  can 
one  behold  stars  changing  to  spectres. 

While  smitten  with  the  fatal  wanness  of  approach- 
ing doom,  the  flamboyant  pleiad  of  the  men  of 
violence  descends  the  steep  slope  to  the  gulf  of  de- 
vouring time  ;  lo  !  at  the  other  extremity  of  space, 
where  the  last  cloud  has  but  now  faded,  in  the  deep 
sky  of  the  future,  azure  forevermore,  rises,  resplen- 
dent, the  sacred  galaxy  of  the  true  stars,  —  Orpheus, 
Hermes,  Job,  Homer,  -^Eschylus,  Isaiah,  Ezekiel, 
Hippocrates,  Phidias,  Socrates,  Sophocles,  Plato, 
Aristotle,  Archimedes,  Euclid,  Pythagoras,  Lucre- 
tius, Plautus,  Juvenal,  Tacitus,  Saint  Paul,  John  of 
Patmos,  Tertullian,  Pelagius,  Dante,  Gutenberg, 
Joan  of  Arc,  Christopher  Columbus,  Luther, 
Michael  Angelo,  Copernicus,  Galileo,  Rabelais, 
Calderon,  Cervantes,  Shakespeare,  Rembrandt, 
Kepler,  Milton,  Moliere,  Newton,  Descartes,  Kant, 
Piranesi,  Beccaria,  Diderot,  Voltaire,  Beethoven, 
Fulton,  Montgolfier,  Washington;  and  the  mar- 
vellous constellation,  brighter  from  moment  to 
moment,  radiant  as  a  tiara  of  celestial  diamonds, 
shines  in  the  clear  horizon,  and,  as  it  rises,  blends 
with  the  boundless  dawn  of  Jesus  Christ. 
27 


INDEX. 


yEscHYLUS,  characterized,  47-48 ;  a 
grand  ruin,  83,  84 ;  not  understood 
by  commonplace  minds,  123  ;  vast 
and  terrible  nature  of  his  drama, 
123-125  ;  representation  of  a  play 
described,  126-131 ;  a  target  for 
hate  during  life,  132,  133  ;  glory 
after  death,  133-135 ;  how  his 
works  were  added  to  the  Alexan- 
drian library,  135-137;  consulted 
by  Fathers  of  the  Church,  138, 139; 
destroyed  by  Omar,  139—142  ; 
Christ  prophesied  in  the  '  Prome- 
theus,' 138;  the  lost  dramas,  143- 
146;  Oriental  character  and  style, 
146-148  ;  a  Pythagorean,  149; 
epitaph,  149 ;  his  geography,  149- 
151;  his  fauna,  151,  152;  a  priest 
of  Nature,  152;  his  bold  familiar- 
ity, 152,  153;  his  comedy,  156;  a 
favorite  in  the  Greek  colonies,  159- 
164;  may  copies  of  his  works  be 
discovered?  164,  165;  sources  of 
our  knowledge  of  him,  168,  169; 
affinity  with  Shakespeare,  169 ; 
Prometheus  compared  with  Ham- 
let, 228-239;  ^Eschylus  contrasted 
with  Shakespeare,  284;  his  opin- 
ion of  art  for  art's  sake,  316;  not 
degraded  by  his  partisanship,  337. 

Agrippina,  mother  of  Nero,  61. 

Alexandrian  library,  its  size,  136; 
possessed  the  unique  copy  of 
^Eschylus,  137-139;  destroyed  by 
Omar,  139-142. 

Anaxagoras,  his  cosmography,  107. 


Aristophanes,  his  opinion  of  ^Eschy- 
lus,  133  ;  his  affinity  with  /Eschy- 
lus,  153-156;  his  antique,  sacred 
immodesty,  154, 155 ;  his  antipathy 
for  Socrates,  155. 

Art,  and  Nature,  36,  37;  relation  of 
God  to  human  art,  37;  unity  of 
art  and  nature,  99,  100;  non- 
perfectibility  the  law  of  art,  101- 
104;  art  contrasted  with  science, 
105-116;  enjoys  a  laugh,  157;  art 
not  degraded  by  descending  to 
humanity,  314-316;  no  loss  of 
beauty  from  goodness,  320 ;  origin 
of  the  phrase,  "  Art  for  art's  sake," 
321,  322.  (See  Poetry.) 


BAYLE  of  Rotterdam,  his  profound 
irony,  330. 

Beethoven,  the  typical  man  of  Ger- 
many, 87,  91. 

Behaim,  Martin,  and  Columbus,  405. 

Bible,  the,  poetry  of,  316.  317;  not 
less  poetical  for  taking  part  in 
human  affairs,  ib. ;  contrasted 
with  Shakespeare,  355,  356. 

Bonaparte,  Jerome,  anecdote  of,  415, 
416. 

Books,  the  best  civilizers,  96-98; 
their  immortality  due  to  Guten- 
berg, 166-167;  Ezekiel's  allegory 
of,  296,  297. 

Bossuet,  his  opinion  of  Moliere, 
252;  his  history,  398. 

Bourgeois.   (^Philistines.) 


420 


INDEX. 


CALCRAFT,  the  hangman,  more  re- 
nowned in  England  than  Shake- 
speare, 361. 

Caligula,  the  emperor,  characterized, 

59- 
Calumny  against  men  of  genius,  252- 

254. 
Cantemir,  historian  of  Turkey,  399, 

400. 
Carthage,  like  England,  except  that 

she  had  no  poet,  349,  350. 
Cervantes,  characterized,  76-80;  La 

Harpe  on  comedies,  252. 
Chrysippus  of  Tarsus,  erroneous  be- 
liefs of,  111-113. 
Civilization,  not  yet  at  its   goal  of 

beneficence  and    fraternity,   327- 

33°- 

Classic  school  of  letters  (ecole  clas- 
sigue),  eschews  imagination,  205- 
21 1 ;  characterized,  288,  289;  out- 
grown, 303,  304;  its  view  of  the 
poet's  service,  334,  335. 

Claudius,  the  emperor,  characterized, 
59,  60. 

Columbus  and  Behaim,  anecdote  of, 
405. 

Cordelia,  characterized,  243,  244, 
246-248. 

Corneille,  and  the  Marquise  de  Con- 
tades,  104;  anecdote  of  his  statue 
at  Rouen,  367. 

DANTE,  characterized,  69-71 ;  quot- 
ed, 197  ;  re-created  himself  in  his 
poem,  227 ;  Chaudon's  opinion 
of,  251  ;  his  work  greater  than 
that  of  Charlemagne,  411,  412. 

Danton,  a  successor  of  Voltaire,  372. 

Death,  the  end  of  all  to  the  great 
captain,  341-345  ;  the  beginning 
of  life  to  the  thinker,  345-348. 

Desdemona  and  Ophelia,  sisters, 
198  ;  Desdemona  characterized, 
242,  243. 

ELIZABETH,  QUEEN,  her  want  of 
regard  for  Shakespeare,  30 ;  char- 
acterized, 355;  typical  of  Eng- 
land, ib. 


England,  her  debt  to  Shakespeare, 

348,  349  5  selfishness,  349  ;   com- 
pared   to   Carthage  and    Sparta, 

349,  350:  made  superior  to  them 
by  Shakespeare,  ib. ;  her  statue 
of  Shakespeare,  351  ;  her  statues 
of    kings,    generals,   and    states- 
men,   351,    352  ;     her    generous 
press,  352  ;   her  flunkeyism,  353, 
354  ;   tardiness  in  rendering  jus- 
tice   to    Shakespeare,    354,   355  ; 
her  prudishness,    356-360 ;    dog- 
ged    coldness      toward      Shake- 
speare,   358  ;     tone      of      some 
English   critics    of    Shakespeare, 
360,  361. 

Epic  poetry,  Oriental,  84-86  ;  Span- 
ish and  German,  85,  86. 
Ezekiel,  characterized,  49-53. 


FALSTAFF,  characterized,  199.. 
Fe"nelon,   his    opinion    of    Moliere, 

252. 
Freedom,    essential    to    humanity, 

298-301. 


GENIUS,  extravagance  and  mon- 
strousness,  92-94  ;  its  divine  mis- 
sion, 178-182 ;  subject  to  calumny, 
251-254  ;  its  unshackled  nature, 
261-263 ;  attitude  of  Philistinism 
toward,  263-267  ;  to  be  accepted 
like  nature,  277-279 ;  humanity 
of  true  genius,  318,  319  ;  death  a 
liberation  of,  345-348. 

Germany,  characterized,  and  her  art 
described,  87-92. 

God,  meaning  of  word,  37  ;  His  crea- 
tive force  unexhausted,  183-185 ; 
use  of  His  name  prohibited  upon 
the  English  stage,  359.  (See  Jesus.) 

Goethe,  his  indifference  to  good  and 
evil,  331  ;  Hugo  unjust  to  him, 
332  (note). 

Good  taste,  an  incubus  upon  art, 
92  ;  sobriety,  bashfulness,  and 
weakness  of  the  French  ecole 
dassique,  205-211. 


INDEX. 


421 


Greece,  cause  of  her  immortality, 
159  ;  how  the  drama  was  fostered 
in  her  colonies,  159-164. 

Greene,  Robert,  attack  upon  Shake- 
speare, 190  (and  note). 

Gutenberg,  a  redeemer,  166,  167. 

HAMLET,  contrasted  with  Prome- 
theus, 228-230 ;  characterized,  232 
-239;  greatness  of,  412. 

History,  the  false,  with  many  ex- 
emplifications, 396-408  ;  the  true, 
408-413. 

Homer,  characterized,  42-44  ;  his 
Olympians  far  from  impossible, 

333- 

Hugo,  Frangois-Victor,  translator  of 
Shakespeare,  Preface ;  the  unmuz- 
zler  of  Shakespeare,  211. 

Hugo,  Victor,  exile  at  Marine  Ter- 
race, 3-7  ;  anecdote  of  youth,  116, 
117;  his  ignorance  of  English 
literature,  194  (note)  ;  his  enthu- 
siastic admiration  for  works  of  ge- 
nius, 279,  280 ;  unjust  to  Goethe, 
332  (note). 

IAGO,  characterized,  242,  243. 
Imagination,  abhorred  by  the  ecole 

classique>  205-209. 
Inspiration,  nature  of  poet's,  37-40. 
Isaiah,  characterized,  48,  49. 

JESUS,  use  of  the  name  in  '  Hernani ' 
prohibited,  359  (note);  dawn  of 
his  era  of  peace,  417. 

Joan  of  Arc,  her  greatness,  362 ;  like 
Shakespeare,  without  a  monument, 
ib. ;  like  him,  sneered  at  by  Vol- 
taire, 363,  364. 

Job,  characterized,  44-47. 

John  the  apostle,  characterized,  62- 
65. 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  opinion  of 
Shakespeare,  189,  192. 

Jonson,  Ben,  relation  to  Shake- 
speare, 29,  30  ;  remark  on  Shake- 
speare's conversation,  252. 

Juvenal,  characterized,  56-58  ;  a  great 
justiciary,  322-324. 


KARAMSIN,  historian  of  Russia, 
399,  400. 

LEAR,  characterized,  243-249. 
Literature.     (See  Poetry.) 
Locomotion,  improvements  in,  108. 
London,  in  Shakespeare's  time,  12, 

13- 

Lucretius,  characterized,  53-56 ;  his 
view  of  religion,  117;  liberated 
thought  from  superstition,  338. 

MACBETH,  characterized,  240-242. 
Macchiavelli,  his  real  meaning,  305, 

306. 
Malone,  critic  and  whitewasher   of 

Shakespeare,  35. 
Man,  his  goal  not  that  of  the  brute, 

301,  302;  his  progress  must  be 

through  intellectual  advancement, 

3°7»  3°9- 

Marine  Terrace,  3,  7. 
Military  science,   improvements  in, 

106,  107. 
Milton,  the  Abb6  Trublet  on,  252  ; 

accused  of  venality,  254. 
Mind,  compared  to  ocean,  7,  8. 
Mirabeau,  his  opinion  of  ^Eschylus, 

122,  123. 

Mob.     (See  People.) 
Moliere,  disapproved  of  by  Fe"nelon 

and  Bossuet,  252  ;  Louis  XIV.  his 

bed-maker,  412. 
Monument  to  a  great  man,  value  of, 

367.     (See  Statues.) 
Muses,  the,  dangerous  companions 

for  the  "  sober"  poet,  209. 
Music,  the  highest  expression  of  the 

German  spirit  found  in,  90,  91. 

NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE,  anecdote 
of,  258;  anecdote  of,  287;  his  view 
of  the  end  of  all,  341,  342  ;  com- 
pared with  Pitt,  388;  his  treat- 
ment by  historians,  401. 

Nero,  the  emperor,  characterized, 
60. 

Nineteenth  century,  the  child  of  the 
French  Revolution,  371,  376. 


422 


INDEX. 


OCEAN,  compared  with  mind,  7,  8. 

Omar,  destroys  the  Alexandrian  li- 
brary  and  /Eschylus,  139-142. 

Ophelia  and  Desdemona,  sisters, 
198. 

Oriental  literature,  84-87. 

Orthodoxy,  literary,  in  France,  char- 
acterized, 205-211,  288,289.  (See 
Sobriety) ;  outgrown,  303,  304  ; 
its  view  of  the  poet's  service,  334, 

335- 

Ossian,  a  real  poet,  326. 
Othello,  characterized,  242,  243. 

PAUL  the  apostle,  characterized,  65, 
69. 

People  (the  masses),  their  behavior 
at  the  theatre,  307,  309 ;  their  need, 
the  ideal,  310  ;  their  servants,  the 
thinkers,  311  ;  to  them  minds 
must  be  useful,  312,  313  ;  com- 
plicity in  their  own  oppression, 
362,  363- 

Philistines  (les  bourgeois),  their 
attitude  toward  works  of  poetic 
genius,  263-268. 

Pitt,  William,  his  cost  to  England, 
388,  389. 

Poet,  the,  his  relation  to  the  super- 
human, 37-40;  his  dangers  and 
obstacles,  41  ;  reality  of  his  crea- 
tions, 195,  196  ;  a  philosopher  and 
an  historian,  195-202  ;  the  well- 
bred  poet  of  the  classic  school, 
209 ;  the  poet's  method  of  crea- 
tion, 220 ;  his  function  to  produce 
types  of  human  character,  219, 
220,  223-227 ;  his  brusque  ways, 
268-271  ;  his  hospitality  and  ten- 
derness, 271-273  ;  panders  to  the 
mob,  289-293 ;  an  instructor  of 
the  people,  296 ;  his  high  duty, 
301-302;  his  humanity,  318,  319; 
a  civilizer,  322  ;  need  of  vigilance. 
328-330  ;  of  enthusiasm  for  useful 
work,  332,  333 ;  capable  of  wrath, 
333 ;  sufferings  of,  343~345-  (See 
Poetry;  Genius;  Thinker.) 

Poetry,  its  ennobling  and  humaniz- 
ing influences,  95-98 ;  its  potential 


life,  116;  its  absolute  and  definitive 
nature,  118-121 ;  its  two  ears,  158  ; 
sovereign  horror  of  great  poetry, 
196,  197;  for  the  benefit  of  the 
people,  289-293 ;  not  for  the  let- 
tered alone,  303,  304 ;  utility  the 
true  test  of,  312,  324 ;  goodness 
involves  no  loss  of  beauty,  320 ; 
poetry  feared  by  oppressors,  324 ; 
honored  in  Middle  Ages,  325  ;  in 
Scotland,  326 ;  dignified  by  its  co- 
operation in  the  work  of  civiliza- 
tion, 335-338. 

Printing,  its  value  illustrated  by  the 
destruction  of  the  works  of  JEs- 
chylus  and  others,  165-168. 

Prometheus,  contrasted  with  Hamlet, 
228-230  ;  characterized,  230-232  ; 
the  grandsire  of  Mab  and  Titania, 
280-282. 

Ptolemy  Evergetes,  adds  ^schylus 
to  the  Alexandrian  library,  135- 
138. 

Puritanism,  its  voluntary  deafness, 
357 ;  its  sensitiveness  to  Shake- 
speare's alleged  impurity,  356- 
360 ;  its  criticism  of  Shakespeare, 
360,  361. 

Pythagoras,  erroneous  beliefs  of,  in  ; 
greater  than  Sesostris,  411. 

RABELAIS,  characterized,  71-76. 

Racine,  his  relation  to  Louis  XIV., 
333,  334 ;  contrasted  with  Voltaire, 
ib. 

Revolution,  the  French,  the  mother 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  371, 
372 ;  characterized,  372  ;  roman- 
ticism and  socialism  sprung  from 
'93,  373-376. 

Romanticism,  called  "literary  '93," 
373-376. 

Rousseau,  Jean-Jacques,  persecuted 
during  life,  259  ;  desecration  of  his 
grave,  260,  261. 

SALMASIUS,  his  opinion  of  jEschy- 

lus,  251. 
Scaliger,  Joseph,  anecdote  of,  108. 


INDEX. 


423 


Science,  the  mission  of,  38  ;  its  ten- 
tative,  perfectible  nature  contrasted 
with  the  absolute  nature  of  art, 
105-116;  erroneous  science  of  an- 
tiquity, 109,  113. 

Service,  greatness  to  be  gained  in, 

3'9- 

Shakespeare,  William,  birthplace,  9  ; 
coat  of  arms,  9  (and  note);  spelling 
of  name,  10  (and  note);  a  butcher, 
10 ;  frolics  of  youth,  10-12;  mar- 
riage, 1 1 ;  appearance  and  man- 
ners, 18;  dates  of  plays,  19- 
23 ;  composition  and  publication 
of  plays,  23-25  ;  death  of  Hamnet 
and  of  John  Shakespeare,  25  ;  in- 
hibition of  plays,  26;  Quiney's 
letter,  ib. ;  New  Place,  27 ;  the 
Davenant  story,  ib. ;  daughters, 

28  ;  he  returns  to  Stratford,  ib. ; 
the  will  and  signatures,  ib.  ;  death, 

29  ;  life  embittered,  ib.  ;  his  great 
popularity,  31  (note) ;  "  eclipse  " 
of  his  fc.me  at  the  Restoration  and 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  32,  33; 
revisions  of  his  plays,  34,  35  ;  his 
genius  characterized,  80-82  ;  com- 
pared with   Lucretius,   80 ;    with 
Dante,  81  ;  with  Homer,  82  ;  affin- 
ity with  ^Eschylus,  169;  disparag- 
ing criticisms  upon  him,  189-195  ; 
his    tragic    horror,    195-197;    his 
philosophy  immanent  in  his  imag- 
ination, 198-202 ;  his  psychological 
insight,  201  ;  his  antithesis  the  an- 
tithesis of  creation,  203-205  ;  his 
freedom    from    "sobriety,"    211- 
216;  his  simplicity,  212-214;  his 
virility,    214-216 ;    his    agitation, 
216,  217;  compared  with  ./Eschy- 
lus  by  Prometheus  and  Hamlet, 
228-239;     double    action    in    his 
dramas,  274-277  ;  contrasted  with 
^Eschylus,  284 ;  his  independence 
and  originality,  285-287;  panders 
to  the  mob,  289-292  ;  he  is  the 
chief  glory  of  England,  348  ;  con- 
trasted   with    Cromwell,    Bacon, 
Newton,    ib. ;   too   English,    349 ; 
indecency  of,  no  greater  than  tjat 


of  the  Bible,  356-358 ;  less  re- 
nowned in  England  than  Calcraft, 
the  hangman,  361  ;  superfluity  of 
a  monument  to  him,  364-367  ;  his 
centennial  anniversaries,  368-370  ; 
his  work  greater  than  that  of 
Charles  V.,  411,  412. 

Shylock,  224,  225. 

Sobriety  in  poetry,  its  emasculating 
effect,  205-211  ;  not  found  in 
Shakespeare,  211-216.  (See  Ortho- 
doxy.) 

Socialism,  the  true,  297,  298  ;  aims 
at  freedom,  298-301. 

Socrates,  his  scepticism,  154-155. 

Sophocles,  his  opinion  of  ^Eschylus, 
251. 

Soul,  the,  its  genesis,  170-172;  real- 
ity of  its  existence,  177,  178. 

Sparta,  city  of  law,  349,  350;  com- 
pared with  England,  ib. 

Stael,  Madame  de,  on  her  exile,  257. 

Staffa,  the  bard's  chair,  326. 

Stage.     (See  Theatre.) 

Statues  (See  Monument),  England's 
statue  of  Shakespeare,  351  ;  her 
statues  of  kings,  generals,  and 
statesmen,  351,  352. 

Swinburne's  '  Study  of  Shakespeare,' 
8  (note). 

TABLE-TIPPING,  in  the  time  of 
Homer,  39;  of  Theodosius,  39; 
in  371  A.  D.,  109,  no. 

Tacitus,  characterized,  58-62;  hate- 
ful to  official  instructors,  397. 

Telescope,  improvements  in  the,  106. 

Theatre,  the  English,  in  Shake- 
speare's time,  13-16;  that  of 
Moliere,  16-18;  in  England  under 
the  Puritans,  31;  under  the  Stuart 
Restoration,  31,  32 ;  that  of  Athens 
in  the  time  of  yEschylus,  126-131 ; 
that  of  the  nineteenth  century  in- 
dependent of  models,  282-284; 
God's  name  prohibited  in  English, 

359- 

Thinker,  his  mission  to-day,  377- 
380;  his  discouragements,  380, 
381 ;  his  beneficence  and  indepen- 


424. 


INDEX. 


dence,  382-384;  his  place  above 

the  warrior  and  the  monarch,  395 ; 

2^.408-417.    (See  Poet ;  Genius.) 

Tiberius,  the  emperor,  characterized, 

58,  59'. 

Types  of  character  produced  by  the 
poets,  223-227. 

Tyrants,  not  to  be  trusted,  328-330 ; 
acceptance  of  their  oppression  be- 
comes complicity,  362,  363;  their 
blind  cruelty,  391-394. 

VOLTAIRE,  reproached  with  kindness 
to  young  poets,  132  ;  attacks  upon 
Shakespeare,  192-194;  reproaches 
Shakespeare  with  antithesis,  250, 


251 ;  is  himself  reproached  with  it, 
ib.;  his  remark  upon  Corneille  and 
Shakespeare,  252;  writers  paid  to 
insult  him,  255,  256,  257-259; 
desecration  of  his  grave,  260,  261 ; 
his  advice  to  Louis  XV.,  306;  com- 
pared with  Macchiavelli,  ib.;  Louis 
XV.  calls  him  fool,  334 :  contrasted 
with  Racine,  ib.;  typical  of  the 
French  mind,  363 ;  and  Frederick 
the  Great,  387;  a  civilizer,  408. 
Vondel,  Joost,  denounced  by  Buy- 
ter,  255,  256. 

WAR,  the  decline  of,  385-390. 
Writer.  (See Poet; Thinker; Genius.) 


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